Brothers in Blood
by KAZ2Y567i
Summary: With all hope of love,happiness and the security of family denied him, Sam turns to the one thing that he knows best...hunting. Within it he finds something that he'd thought he'd lost...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N.** Hello again...waves

Reality has kept me busy for some time and to make matters worse my plot bunnies decided to take themselves for a holiday somewhere. So, plot ideas were pretty scarce for awhile. Now they're back with a twinkle in their eye and a spring in their step. I'm not going to ask what mischief they got up to while they were away...winks.

A huge thank you goes to my beta Maya Perez who with a gentle hand guided my words and ideas. And if I didn't come up to par she 'gently' prodded me with a chosen weapon from her arsenal of pointed sticks...lol. I mean that in the kindest possible way. For without her this story would be the mindless ramblings of an obsessed supernatural fan...hats off to you girl

I hope that you like this story. It is AU, so be aware of that while you're reading it. As always feel free to leave a review good, bad or indifferent.

Dramatic drum roll...

**Brothers in Blood**

**By KAZ2Y567i**

"_Anywhere I roam_

_Where I lay my head is home"_

_Metallica- Wherever I may roam_

**Chapter 1 Present Day**

Long fingers wound their way around the coffee cup, absently tapping a rhythm that had no rhyme or reason on its cooling exterior.

Sam had bought the paper earlier that morning and was looking for any 'out of the ordinary' news that might have occurred overnight. His breakfast sat by his right arm, only partially consumed, the remains left to grow cold and stale. He'd woken earlier than he'd wanted to, to the same nightmare that had plagued him since he started this hunt.

_Fire!_

_Heat!_

_Then snapping upright with her name still on his lips._

He had long ago come to terms that he would never be free of the guilt he still harboured over Jess' death. Guilt that lay quietly dormant in his subconscious, biding its time for when his will weakened. Then it would release the memories and make a child of him - causing him to cry her name over and over in his sleep then bolting upright, sweaty and panting, his pain fresh, his shame laying over him like a cloak, its icy fingers constricting his heart.

More often than not the dreams would stop there - her frozen face surrounded by fire - then he would awaken, shaken and alone.

Back then, before he left school forever, he'd pondered the advantages of seeking professional help from a grief counsellor on campus. But his pain had been too recent, his guilt too great for him to confide in a stranger no matter how well intentioned. Besides, he was harbouring secrets he would never want to let see the light of day. And even though he believed in the confidentiality of patient/doctor relations, the 'family business' would best be left alone for all concerned. So he tried to solve the problem on his own the only way he knew how - computer research. And through it he'd come across The Five stages of Grief by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross. Something he wished he had known of earlier for the time before…

He'd immersed himself in the electronic text, his bottled-up emotions releasing themselves as he read each stage of the grieving process - empathising with each and every graduation as he read it. His eyes had overflowed with tears, his heart beginning to lighten from the burden it carried. He felt himself reach an epiphany as he accepted the hard fact that no matter how much he relished having the benefit of hindsight, he could not have saved Jess from her fate.

It made her loss just that little bit more bearable…….but only just.

However small the comfort, it was something he'd desperately needed. Especially since his father was still missing….situation unknown, MIA. No amount of cell messages, whether uttered in expressions of sorrow or loneliness, filled with demands for information, or covered in tones of unbridled anger at not being called back, or even the longing of a son to hear the comforting voice of his father. They all went unanswered, every last one.

Sam was on his own.

He rubbed at his face for a moment, pushing the unwanted recollections away and the throbbing pain that came with them aside.

Luckily for him, despite the early hour, the convenience store had been open, and resigned with the fact he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep, he'd decided to make the best of it and got himself some food. To placate the hunter within him, he'd grabbed a local paper and kept alert for clues.

All his research, and the other information he garnered during the last few days had led him to this small but quaint town called Absolution. It supported a moderate populace of middle class workers. The community consisted of modern looking schools, libraries and businesses, all neatly planned out and structured by the original developer into a grid. Similarly constructed houses, where only the colours of the awnings made them different from one another, arose from manicured lawns and gleaming white pavement. Well marked, wide roads criss-crossed each other, making it easy for anyone to navigate their way through the town proper. Sam had found it surprisingly pleasurable to drive through it looking for a motel. He had watched the locals as they nodded their heads in recognition of a familiar face, or stopped for a moment to chat, then give a casual wave of goodbye with the promise of catching up later. Everything seemed safe. Peaceful. Normal. But even normal could hide things behind its carefully constructed exterior.

Sam was on the hunt for vampires. And the detritus of their tracks had led him here.

The town bothered him more and more the longer he stayed. He trusted his 'hunters nose' and something wasn't right, and it was more than the fact vampires had come here. The beaming faces and friendly smiles he received upon arriving made him feel welcome at first. But soon Sam saw through the façade of the gleaming teeth and the wide smiles. He peered into their eyes, and the populace looked frightened. The fact that young girls had disappeared in neighbouring areas and yet no 'missing' signs had been placed around the town or that he never overheard any gossip on the disappearances was enough to make him wary. There was something foul broiling beneath the undercurrent of normalcy here.

He'd been too late to save the latest victim -- a young girl of about 16 years, who'd been bled dry in an old woodcutter's cottage up in the hills. She must have been there for a few days judging by the disgusting state of the cabin and the horrific condition of her body. Wild animals had found their way into the abandoned cabin once those who'd killed her were through. They'd attempted to usurp the vampires' predator scent by defecating and urinating throughout its interior. In one corner lay the dismembered remains of some kind of animal - its once vibrant life gone, its remains strewn on the wood floor. The combined stench of faecal matter, dead mammal and nibbled cadaver nearly made him retch.

Sam had found the girl trussed up like a pheasant waiting to be bled, hands tied up high above her head, legs in a similar position to the ground. Her clothes hung off her in strips that did little to cover the puncture wounds and bite marks populating her body. Sam had checked around the cabin for any identification or clues as to where she came from. But nothing revealed itself during his meticulous search amongst the filth and decay. Though from what he'd noticed before, this didn't necessarily mean she wasn't a local.

All his instincts had clamoured for him to cut her down and give her a burial, possibly with a few words of blessing said over her grave. But Sam had known better than to touch her. He'd already been there longer than necessary for his scent to remain and give a discreet warning to the vampires that their haven had been polluted. No, he would leave her untouched after disguising his footprints and smell with debris and masking scents designed to keep vampires unaware that anyone had been privy to their murder.

Sighing heavily at the memory, Sam stopped reading for the time being. He pushed the paper away from him, and slumped back into his chair. He'd been concentrating for too long and the black print was beginning to merge into incomprehensible symbols. Kneading the flesh above his nose at the burgeoning ache brought on by lack of sleep, he pushed his chair away from the kitchenette table and walked to the front window of his motel room, stretching his legs and cricking his back in the process. Stopping at the window, he parted the flimsy curtains and glanced out.

There sat the impala in all her ebony beauty. Caressing her form and shape with his silent reverence, his gaze skimmed along the contours of her metallic body. He took in her strong lines, her power and her willing heart. She encapsulated everything from his past, his present, and perhaps his future. She was his only constant in the turbulent life he'd made for himself. She was his memory.

His life.

His home.

And she would've belonged to someone else if circumstances had been different.

Sloughing off the remorseful thoughts, Sam shook himself out of his reverie and returned to the open newspaper. Nothing was going to get accomplished if he continued along this line of thinking. Settling himself back in his chair, he began to read. Fingers skimming along the typeset, he checked for any headlines that might pertain to the discovery of the girl in the cabin. There weren't any, which was a good sign. He wanted it to remain that way. Leaving the place untouched was the best way for him to keep the vampires at ease. It would give him the opportunity to draw them into a false sense of security, for them to believe their activities went unnoticed. Not that he was naïve enough to think they would become blasé and totally complacent about their subterfuge. No, those were two qualities vampires didn't possess. But Sam would take any advantage he could, however small, and this he was going to milk for all it was worth.

Returning to the newspaper, he began to read from where he left off and noticed there were a few reports of local farmers complaining about their cattle being attacked. Puncture wounds had been found around the neck region but were not damaging or life threatening. Police believed it to be pranks by bored juveniles.

Could this be connected with his clan of vampires, one of them having a sudden urge for bovine blood? About as likely as them turning into tree hugging vamps. It was probably an unrelated incident.

Still, not believing in coincidences, Sam cut the reports out and put them aside for further study.

The type of trauma inflicted upon the young girl was indication enough for any hunter to know there were vampires in the area. The cabin was, for the time being, a hangout for their grisly activities and once they sated themselves they left it to sleep elsewhere. Sam was positive they were 'his' vampires and he knew they would return. He'd been hunting them for a few weeks now and had found reports and checked the remains of similar victims on the borders of adjoining counties.

The closer he got to this town though, the frequency of girls disappearing diminished, which was odd. And if it weren't for him mapping the locations of all the kills on a wall map, he wouldn't have noticed that this town had no disappearances, no kills. It was almost like the place was sacrosanct – as if all the afflicted towns pointed toward this one just as all roads once led to Rome. Add that to the fact no one ever spoke of those gone missing around them, or the lack of notices like he'd seen in every other town in the area, regardless of where the person had gone missing from...and things looked more out of kilter than before.

Furthermore, he was suspicious of the crime scenes. To an untrained eye the scene was macabre - young girls hanging lifeless and bloodless from the ceiling. But upon closer inspection of the bodies he could see an attempt had been made to cover them with what was left of their tattered clothing. As if someone was embarrassed by their nakedness and wanted to give the young women some modesty in their death - buttons on blouses partially done up; clothing re-arranged to sit properly and not hang haphazardly. On one body Sam had found the remnant smears of dried tears and dirt coating her closed eyes as if someone had seen her lifeless eyes staring at them and filled with pity had closed them as a farewell.

This type of behaviour was unbecoming of a vampire. And as Sam had found no human tracks coming or going into the crime scenes, he felt there may have been a third party involved. A very skilled third party. This became even more obvious as a thorough search of each body always found one extra bit of evidence tucked in a fold of clothing or pocket. Something which would make normal investigators shake their heads in confusion but be a screaming sign of what had killed the victim to anyone in the know – a small curved, hollow tooth -– one discarded like a shark's tooth in favour of a re-growth. Someone wanted hunters to know what was out there preying on the weak.

He tapped his fingers on the tabletop, each digit marking off the facts in his head. He added one more after he was done, his instincts still insisting the cow molestations must be connected in some way as well though he couldn't as yet say how.

The Winchester itch for 'something isn't quite right here' was starting to tingle in earnest.

Reading further he spotted a follow-up report to a blood theft at the local blood bank. The report re-iterated the police's statement that the lock had been picked by an expert. No fingerprints were found and only a few blood bags had been stolen. The authorities suspected the blood may have been taken to be sold on the black market. The news article closed with the police's appeal for public help and that the case remained open.

_Now why would someone want to steal blood from a small town like this? _

The conjecture by the police about the black market was desperate in the extreme. Only a small amount of blood had been stolen. Possibly enough to sustain one, maybe two vampires at most for a short while. If there was money to be made in the theft of blood a larger city would be a better target. The police had no idea as to the culprit or motive and were clutching at straws to rationally explain the theft.

No, there was something wrong here and it was starting to make his itch turn into eczema.

Sam suddenly jumped out of his chair. It banged loudly behind him as it hit the floor.

_Of course! How could he have missed this?_

The accumulation of too many late nights and the lack of sleep had worn down his normally acute acumen. His fatigue had dulled his focus. He knew he couldn't go on like this much longer, and if he did, mistakes like these or worse would occur. Errors in the research, which would then lead to an ill-planned hunt and possibly result in injury or death to himself or those he hoped to save. His lethargy could be his undoing.

Moving towards his duffel he pulled out his journal. Snapping open the book, he quickly leafed through the pages. As his fingers fanned them in his haste to find what he was looking for; they created an eddy that loosened the newspaper clippings inside. The clippings fell to the floor. Sighing with frustration, he bent down to pick them up and on the upward movement his mind spun with the sudden loss of blood. Grasping the side of the bed for support he let himself pause a moment before he rose the rest of the way.

With a few deep breaths to compose himself, he turned back to the table and grabbed the clippings he had cut out earlier. Scanning through them he quickly placed them in chronological order.

The ache behind his eyes increased exponentially. He hoped it wouldn't escalate to something less pleasant. Ignoring it, he carried on with his research.

He glanced at the date of his diary entries from when he first started his hunt to the present date. He then compared them to those of the newspaper clippings of other past cow molestations and blood bank robberies. They coincided with each other. All were only off by a few days on either side of a victim being killed.

_What the?_

He massaged the muscles at the base of his neck, trying to loosen the increasing tension there.

_Oh man, I really don't need this… Not again…_

His thoughts died suddenly as the persistent, painful side effects of his constant nightly companion came to the fore -- that extra scene of his guilt induced nightmare that lingered on the edge of his consciousness, waiting to pounce, even into wakefulness.

His vision tunnelled, the black edges speckled with silver lights. The cold scent of half eaten pancakes assailed his nostrils and made his stomach move of its own volition. His senses became so amplified he swore he could smell the warm leather of the impala's interior and the indoctrinated smell of gun powder and manly scent despite the fact the car was on the other side of the wall.

All of this came to him in a rush of adrenaline, pain, and endorphins.

Then came the rest of the nightmare, the confusing memories…

_Flames. Hot and moving._

_Flames on the ceiling. Rippling above like waves on a shoreline. _

_Flames on the ceiling shrouding a girl pinned to it._

_Flames that flashed- red-gold-white as they undulated over and around her with an almost sensual intensity in its caress. Her golden hair a halo around her stark white fear frozen face._

_Her abdomen cut and bleeding - Her life's blood dripping onto his upturned face._

_Her eyes and mouth wide open as if asking a question. Her form beseeching him for an answer._

_Why? Why didn't you tell me Sam?_

_Then a loud scream of No! Jess, No!_

_His body scooting backwards on the bed. Eyes fixated on the horrific scene above him._

_Hands coming from his right to grab at his biceps, incessantly pulling and tugging at him to come away. To leave his lover. To leave Jess!_

_His body partially rotating to escape._

_His legs and arms tangling amongst themselves in their confusion on whether to fight, save or flee._

_Reflex turning his gaze towards his saviour/tormentor._

_Seeing first his own distorted reflection, framed by fire, staring back at him from the fireman's protective faceplate._

_Then peering closer and seeing his own expression mirrored in the fireman's eyes._

_Eyes that were the same as his brother's…_

"Arrgh!"

Sam fell to his knees on the worn motel carpet. Teeth in a grimace, eyes tightly shut and excreting salty tears of pain, his palms held his head, which at the moment felt as if it were splitting in two, so intense was his waking nightmare.

"Gah,..God!" he exclaimed in shock as he collapsed and rolled on the floor.

Chest heaving, his lungs straining for a full intake of breath but only being successful with short shallow gulps, Sam tried to hold on.

His stomach roiled with increasing amounts of acid, threatening to expunge its contents on the floor.

He began to crawl, slowly and with measured movements, trying not to jar his already throbbing head. He made his way incrementally toward the bathroom. The cold of the floor tiles as he got there made his palms shiver upon contact and sent a sigh of relief through his overstressed and flushed body.

_Just a bit further...a few more inches…._

Sam reached the toilet bowl just in time for his stomach to release what was inside. Letting his reflexes take control, he succumbed to their sudden authority over him. An acrid stench rose to cover him as globs of half digested breakfast splashed into the water. His body repeated the routine over and over until he had no more to give.

Chest and body aching from the effort, his wired muscles slowly relaxed once it was over, the entirety of him tired and spent. The infusion of adrenalin now used up, Sam's body slowly relinquished control to another natural force of nature. Her usurpation assured, gravity took advantage of Sam's weakened state and drew him slowly to her cold bosom.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** Thank you to everyone that has so far reviewed... ghostwriter, pandorajazz, Maddyj74, dean'sdreamingangel,blacknightdemon...The question that you've all been asking will be answered very soon...evil grin. It is so good to be back! Also, a thank you to the readers that have put me on your alert list...Poaetpainter, Ster1,eddy6401, Palo Alto... and to the lurkers out there that are reading this story. I hope that I don't dissapoint.

A very special thank you goes to my beta, Maya Perez, who without her help in wordsmithing, grammar and her deft hand with a sharply pointed stick in my tender spots, this story would never be half as good as it appears here.

My bunnies are astral planers!

The usual disclaimers apply. I can but dream...

**Chapter 2**

Present day

_When sorrows come, they come not single spies,_

_But in battalions……………Shakespeare - Hamlet_

He had no idea how long he lay unconscious on the bathroom floor, only that he must have been there for some hours judging by the crick in his neck and the growing complaint of his back, which was twisted at an awkward angle. The sizeable puddle of drool was another tell tale sign. The cold of the tiles beneath him both soothed his flushed forehead and numbed the rest of his prone body in its uncomfortable position. Opening one eye, Sam scanned his surroundings. Slowly he pushed himself up, wiping away the dribble from his chin and the cobwebs of disorientation from his face, trying hard to focus. He turned a little too quickly and instantly regretted it. His stomach roiled, its rise and fall in league with the thumping in his head. Together they alternated their manic symphony and wreaked their music upon his shuddering body.

Eyelids partially slitted against the sunlight that bounced mercilessly from the tiled floor and into his eyes; Sam slowly brought his legs up underneath him. Positioning his elbows on his folded knees he let his head rest on the fulcrum of his hands. Even these slow, small movements made him hiss and clench his teeth in distress. The migraine still had its tendrils firmly ensconced in his quivering body, and every iota of movement, no matter how subtle, ignited the pain receptors, forcing them to excrete shock waves of debilitation.

Exhaling forcefully, he pushed himself up onto his feet and hobbled towards the sink. Head still down, fearing an encore performance of the symphony, he braced himself with one hand on the edge of the chipped enamel basin, the other turning on the water. He washed his face, carding his wet fingers through his hair. Looking up he noticed his pale, wan reflection… eyes large in a ghost like countenance, dark rings sitting under them like bruises. Lips full and red, flushed from being the exit for his inner turmoil.

_I look like shit._

Grabbing a nearby flannel he soaked it in the water. He watched and waited as it sucked up the coolness, his head mercilessly continuing to punish him. Once satisfied, he wrung out the excess water and shuffled towards his bed. He brought the sodden cloth to his forehead, to give his pounding head much needed relief.

He'd had the same memory laden dream countless times before – but this was one of the few times he'd seen the fireman. His saviour didn't appear in his nightmares all that often. But when he did his psyche always reacted violently to the technicolour addition of the man with hazel eyes.

_So like my brother's._

Involuntarily Sam shuddered.

_No! I'm not going there!_

He shuffled a bit closer to the bed and sat down on its edge. Head bowed, the soothing wet flannel was held to his forehead like a priest's benediction.

_I don't want to think about it._

A droplet of water forced its way through his fingers and dripped onto his knee.

After the first violent image induced migraine Sam had researched possible explanations as to why they affected him this way. Freud suggested that bad dreams let the brain learn to gain control over emotions resulting from distressing experiences. He called the interpretation of dreams the 'Royal road' to the discovery of the unconscious - that is to say, it was the 'King's highway' along which everyone could travel to discover the truth of unconscious processes for themselves.

But what had happened to him today and on other previous occasions went beyond the normalcy of subconscious induced bad dreams and nightmares. He was wide awake when these overtook him -- his memories entwining themselves with events, calling the visions forth, and triggering a staggering aftermath of pain and discomfort. He could handle his over-active brain 'reasoning' out what had happened through dreams. But the memories recalled were more psychosomatic than helpful. His brain re-living the death of his lover supported the Jess part of his dream and the guilt and other feelings he'd yet to totally reconcile himself to but what about the fireman? What did he have to do with anything?

Further research into the hidden meaning of dreams hadn't enlightened Sam to a logical explanation for the waking part of it. He felt more in the dark now with all the knowledge he had accumulated than when he started to experience them and had no information to fall back upon at all .

His stomach began to rumble again. Automatically he reached for the bottle of water on the bedside table. Anticipating the onrush of soothing liquid, his stomach roiled again and he quickly set the drink back down at the surfacing memory of a previous episode where water did little to calm down his acid laden stomach and in fact acerbated the episode. Not wanting a repeat performance he would bide his time until his stomach wouldn't rebel against any form of nourishment.

His head felt heavy in his hands. The white noise of life - cars driving along the blacktop, motel doors being slammed shut, the voices of the other tenants, the ring of the reception door bell - continued on around him, oblivious to the pained individual alone in the sparsely furnished motel room with the retro décor.

Sam's thoughts began to wander. They drifted to more pleasant times - distracting his psyche so his body could concentrate on returning to normal. Turning his mind inwards and back to the halcyon days of his time at college -- his 'Elysian Fields' of perfect bliss; his rapture in the discovery of boundless knowledge, the warm company of class-mates…….

And then Jess.

She'd glided into his life like an angel. He couldn't remember how they met, or who introduced them. But if he thought his life was heaven on a stick beforehand, he now had the whole ice-cream parlour. Jess was everything he'd believed he would never have – everything that would be forever denied to him with his abnormal past and his reticent ways. He was no stranger to the longing looks of girls but they never meant or amounted to much and he never persued them further. But with Jess it was different. He was drawn to her. Not like a moth to a flame; where you would be drawn to something so beautiful, wanting to experience it for a few moments of unbridled joy, only to then slowly die, wings burnt and broken on the cold earth. Sam was no Icarus; but he'd known instinctively that getting close to the sun that was Jess wouldn't burn his feathers away. No, this was something totally different. Her soul, her soul spoke to him - shining through her vibrant blue eyes and enveloping his heart in its soft caress. It helped to ease his panic at beholding the vision in front of him - channeling through her outstretched hand and into his as she touched him. He felt it then and he thought she must have felt it too by the quizzical look on her face. A connection. A bond. A re-joining of something that had been broken for too long. He'd only had this feeling once before in his life and had been shocked that he'd felt it again so soon. He'd thought that part of him was dead and buried along with all its bitter memories.

But there she'd stood before him and he'd known-**he'd known** she was the girl for him.

They courted for a short time and then decided to give up the pretence and move in together. Their friends nodded sagely, not at all fooled by his somewhat prudish ways. Setting up and making a home together was one of the best decisions he ever made. Being with her in a place of their own, surrounded by their possessions, to actually own things, filled an emptiness inside he hadn't even really been aware of. He'd thought his voracious thirst for knowledge had quelled the black hole of loss gaping inside - but it never even touched the sides. Yet Jess with her soft laugh, her astuteness to his moods and occasional broodiness - alleviating them with a soft touch or a simple kiss, only increased the love he had for her and dispersed his black void. She'd pushed aside the heavy velvet curtains of loss and loneliness and opened his heart to a happiness he'd only dreamt of. Just having her within arms reach was enough to dispel the dark thoughts that would often cloud his mind - of remembering a father that he was distanced from, either by miles or intent. And then there was Dean….

His brother would've loved to have had a home to come back to. But it was something Sam had never gotten the chance to share with him.

Sam shifted where he sat, guilt, longing, and pain warring inside him.

Yet the things he'd found for himself- his happiness, had been taken away.

It had never been meant to be. The thing that had killed his mother had intruded into his life again and robbed him of his love. With a whoosh of combustible fuel, it had turned everything he'd gained into ash and charred remains. Memories were all he had now, and even they were starting to fade with no tangible possessions to anchor them to.

Jess was dead and his brother was gone.

He missed them both – at times so badly it was like physical pain. And both of them haunted him. Jess as he relived the horror of her death over and over. And Dean...

Sam sighed heavily, adjusting the flannel and relaxing into himself.

For some time he had been seeing Dean's eyes or quirky expressions reflected in that of strangers. Wishful thinking or happenstance, Sam couldn't quite explain it. Hints of his brother's presence would flash in darkened corners and in murky shadows at the edge of his periphery. A certain smell would linger on the wind - the scent of gun smoke and ash blending with a familiar aftershave - and Sam would turn towards it, only to find the face of a stranger looking at him quizzically. Once, he could have sworn he saw Dean in his darkened motel room just before sunrise. His brother looking down at him with so much love in his eyes that Sam cried when he awoke to find it was all a dream. And then later, just at dusk that same day, he'd watched a stranger in a leather jacket with a familiar bowlegged walk stroke his fingers along the fine lines of the impala, then move around the corner and out of Sam's sight. Rushing out in pursuit, Sam found that the stranger had disappeared with no evidence he'd ever actually been there.

Another droplet of water worked its way down his arm and fell next to its brother. But this one was brackish.

The flannel no longer covered his forehead but was over his eyes. The cool water had mostly evaporated and was now replaced by warm salty tears. Sam let himself fall back onto the bed and into more of his memories. Memories that cushioned and gently eased him down till his head felt the softness of his pillow. He discarded the flannel, letting it drop from lax fingers, the pillow taking its place as the dyke of restrained sorrow broke and cracked without a finger to plug it. Deeper, older memories swept up in his semi-conscious state, like dying leaves taken by the wind from a tree in the fall - first one, then another and another. Overlapping each other as they were blown forward, escaping through the gap in his crumbling defences, eager to reach recognition in his growing depression.

One memory was stronger than the rest and it halted all the others in their subconscious tracks.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

**A/N Thank you so much to everyone that has reviewed. Your comments give me the inspiration to write on. Thank you also to those that read and don't review. I know that you're out there and for whatever reason you chose not to comment that's your prerogative. Thanks for being there anyway.**

**Thank you also to my fabulous beta, Maya. She's had faith in me when I was ready to throw in the towel on this story. It also helps that she has a full box of pointed sticks to prod me into writing more….lol**

**Remember that this story is AU and this chapter is from Sam's memory.**

**As always, reviews are appreciated and relished like a good cup of coffee and a Jeff le Bruge chocolate!**

**Chapter 3**

**Year 1998 **

_There is no greater sorrow than to recall happiness in times of misery_

_**Dante-Inferno**_

"Move over, Sam!" Dean grunted, trying to squirm himself more space on the rear seat of the impala.

They'd been on the road for several hours, grey clouds and bleak landscapes their only companions.

Their Dad had shut off the radio, nothing coming in clear this far out.

So, that left Sam and Dean to devise their own forms of entertainment. And to make matters worse a bored older brother was a nasty older brother who took great delight in inflicting his inactivity upon his sibling. He'd been chipping at Sam's temper for the last half hour straight.

"No way! You've got more than enough room." Sam inched over in the opposite direction just to spite him.

"Keep your spider arms and legs to yourself, Sam!"

"Make me, dwarf."

Dean shoved Sam's knee back to his side. Just to be stubborn, Sam put it back again.

"Why you little…"

"Boys!" A voice that brooked no argument issued from the mouth of their father. "That's enough! We're already late as it is. I don't need any more of your juvenile carry ons!"

Thoroughly chastised, they quietened.

"Bitch." Sam heard his brother mumble. His voice barely audible but just loud enough for Sam's ears to register.

He glanced up and over to make doubly sure he wasn't overheard, then followed with his usual rebuttal. "Jerk"

"The two of you just keep your britches on a little while longer. We're almost there." The tone of John's voice alerting the boys he wasn't totally deaf to what was said behind his back.

Sam knew he was partially to blame for their father's less than tolerant mood. He'd helped pack the car the night before, his dad fully intending for them to leave just after dawn. Dean thought it would be a good idea for them to get in some last minute shooting practise before night fall, and with their father's encouragement and warnings to be careful still ringing in their ears, they'd sauntered off to their secluded practice range. By the time they arrived Sam was all keyed up to show Dean how good he was. He'd been practising in his free time and felt he'd improved a lot. So, when Dean just stood there with an amused look on his face, Sam couldn't see the funny side of it at all. That was until he saw Dean pull aside a hay bale and reveal a six pack of beer and a bottle of scotch. The grin on Dean's face widened into a full fledged smile and Sam's dimples deepened.

"Your first vampire hunt little bro," Dean said as he cracked one open and passed it to Sam. They moved to sit shoulder to shoulder against an old oak tree. "Gotta celebrate the milestone. Besides, this shit will put some hair on your chest."

Sam's euphoria escalated. Everything he'd dreamt about was about to become a reality. It was nearly upon him - his first vampire hunt and to top it all off – he was about to have his first beer with his brother! It couldn't get any better than this. All thoughts of impressing his brother with his honed shooting skills were washed away by the taste of the amber fluid and the scotch chasers. The beer had a sour taste, but he thought he liked it. The scotch burned down his throat and spread unexpected warmth in his stomach and other parts of him. He was experiencing things he hadn't been able to with his brother before.

That was until their father found the two of them hours later.

Dean had long since passed out and fallen asleep with his back still up against the oak. Sam was puking his guts up on the other side, revising his previous excitement at celebrating his impending hunt with alcohol.

Sam remembered the cuffing that Dean received and words such as "irresponsible" and "you should've known better, you're older" uttered from their father's lips as he marched them back to their lodgings. His father's hand around his bicep was none too gentle either as he was hauled into the bathroom to clean himself up.

Through the thin bathroom walls Sam heard their father give Dean a dressing down. Sam knew his time would soon come for an earful as well.

Their evening was spent in silence. Eyes not meeting around the table as they pushed their now cold dinner around their plates - - the air heavy with recriminations and restrained emotions. Sam excused himself and tottered off to bed, his stomach still queasy, his head starting to pound, and with his father's angry words still ricocheting in his head, he couldn't stand to stay up any longer. Dean followed not long after. Sam felt him settle in next to him in the double bed they shared. He was on the virge of sleep but had to say something to make it alright.

"Thanks, Dean," he whispered into the night - trying to convey as much appreciation in those few words for the real intent of

his brother's actions that afternoon as he could.

He felt Dean move beside him, and then a warm hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

"Pleasure, little bro" The words whispered close to his ear, and Sam could hear the smile in them.

Grinning contently that they were on the same page he snuggled down into the covers and promptly fell asleep. Only to be abruptly woken in what felt like a moment or two later by a rough hand on his shoulder, the sunshine bright through their bedroom curtains, and their father's voice bellowing that they'd both slept through their bedside alarms. Hustling into their clothes they grabbed the cold toast that had been made for them earlier and ran out the door.

With his memories of last night and that morning still lingering, Sam looked at his father and could feel the cloud of annoyance, impatience and anger still rolling off him, even from the backseat of the impala. He was certain his brother could feel it as well but chose to ignore it.

John expertly handled the car along the slick, black asphalt, her engine rumbling and growling in response to his light tapping of the brakes, her automatic gearbox changing down a gear to round a tight corner. Accelerating slowly, he controlled the resulting fishtail, marginally correcting then applying more gas as the road straightened, the light cover of a late morning shower coming off her rear tires and creating a spray of water in her wake. The distance between them and their destination was decreasing with every mile. They were on their way to their next hunt.

Vampires.

A small clan by all accounts.

Sam couldn't wait. He tried to hide his rising exuberance now that they were almost there and attempted to stay on his father's good side, but it broke away from its master and demanded some kind of release. Dean was the nearest outlet.

Thrill filled hazel eyes glanced his way, feeling exactly the same.

Fingers suddenly poked and grabbed at vulnerable body parts, faces laughing silently and teeth flashing as they both inhaled the adrenalin charged excitement.

Sam glanced into the rear-view mirror and upon seeing the reflection of his dad's stern face, all thoughts of continuing with the mutual teasing abruptly diminished. He jumped as a finger found a rib and pinched.

They drove on for a few more miles before turning off the two-lane blacktop, then slowed onto a dirt road that led up and away into the forest.

The sun was a pearl grey globe in the sky, trying in vain to reach the zenith of its brightness by the time John had parked the car in a flat clearing that was all but invisible from the main road. Alighting quickly, he moved to the rear of the car, Sam and Dean close at his heels. Upon opening the boot he withdrew three partially filled duffels, dropping them to one side. Lifting the false bottom, he propped it up with a shotgun, reached in and removed three of everything that was required - razor sharp machetes; crossbows, quivers, and emergency supplies. The arrowheads of the quivers they'd spent days hollowing out and then inserting glass vial cartridges filled with dead man's blood. Their dad had designed these, after reading that this type of blood was anathema to vampires. It was poison to them. In small amounts it would slow them down, making them easier to decapitate. Larger doses inhibited their non-human talents to the extent it would kill them, very slowly and very painfully. They'd made enough cartridges for the arrows for the hunt tonight, and more to be kept, just in case, in small pocket size shock proof containers. The cartridges were fragile enough they could be smashed against the exposed skin of a vampire to incapacitate it, therefore giving them enough time to kill it or to flee, whatever the situation called for. Lastly, he grabbed their three favourite guns and deposited them in the duffels before passing them to his sons, keeping one for himself.

"You remember what I told you?" he asked brusquely as he watched them re-arrange their bags. His impatience was evident in his voice and stance as he eyed them - his feet shifting slightly, eager to be on the move.

"Yes, sir," they answered in unison, eyes to the front. Despite his own welling anticipation, Sam didn't dare let it show, instead giving in to his training, and standing in readiness - a young soldier keen to do his general's bidding. He could see Dean standing stiffly beside him, the eagerness of the coming fight radiating from him in waves, despite his serious expression.

Their father grabbed his duffel and headed off in the direction of a disused hunters cabin deeper in the woods. Sam got ready to follow, slinging the duffel over his shoulder. Dean nudged him in their father's direction, giving him a sly wink….. _Ladies first_…..Sam rolled his eyes and mouthed 'dwarf', successfully avoiding any bodily contact from his brother by side-stepping in the direction their father took. He couldn't discern whether the soft breeze that ruffled the underside of his long hair at the nape of his neck was from nature or from the cuff he would've received from his brother if he'd been any slower.

Sam turned toward the path, but not before a poked tongue was aimed as a silent challenge towards his brother. He began to jog in the direction their father took, maintaining a steady pace confident that his older brother would quickly catch up to him. As expected Dean easily caught up, falling into a steady rhythm by his side. Shoulder to shoulder, they shared a smile of companionship as they moved as one through the underbrush.

Accomplished in the art of stealth their movements hardly made a sound as they quickly hustled towards their destination. Measured steps avoided breaking the underbrush anymore than was necessary. To a novice in the woods the sounds would be heard as nothing more than that of small creatures, keen to get to their warm lodgings.

Hiding behind a copse of trees, they quietly placed their duffels at their feet, removing the weapons they would need for their grisly work. Their warm exhales created soft plumes in the cool early afternoon air, their only concession to any exertion after their long trek through the woods.

John had received prior knowledge, via his sources, that this clan was set to move out tonight. The fact it was daylight was an advantage. The sun would be their ally, its rays a weakness of the undead race they could exploit.

Their father snatched up his duffel and moved towards the cabin down the slope. He slowly descended the small embankment away from the tree line where the boys were watching out of sight. Crouched down low and moving silently forward, he then came to a stop within a few meters of the entrance.

The log cabin was nestled in a glen surrounded by low hillocks -- its size small enough to be hidden by the trees and foliage that dotted the rise around it and easily missed if you didn't know it was there. The same size and shape as a hikers or a trappers cabin their father had told them it would most likely be comprised of the most basic of living quarters – just one large room with partitions to separate the sleeping area from the kitchen and a basic washroom. There was a clearing of a few meters around the cabin's perimeter – a firebreak of sorts. But it was now all overgrown and unkempt. The grass was nearly knee high in some places, interspersed with puddles of water and mud. There was a lean-to not far along the same wall as the entrance with a rotting block of wood and a rusty axe protruding from it. Old weather-beaten buckets, tools and other implements had been left to lie and rot where they had fallen. This cabin hadn't been used or maintained for sometime. The elements and mother nature slowly laying claim to it.

The area was mostly devoid of visible animal life. The few brave souls that dared to venture out into the cold for food had found that their meals had decided to stay in the warm confines of their burrows rather than venture out. Hunters of the sky could be seen gliding in warm thermals above but other than for them the forest was quiet.

Sam gave an involuntary shiver as he scanned his surroundings, committing it all to memory. It was cold out here after the warmth of the impala, the sun partially hidden by the thick grey clouds above as if trying to put a damper on his big day.

He wouldn't let it though and there was a lot for him to concentrate on besides the weather - the lay of the land, his father's instructions, and recalling the information he had garnered about vampires. His body was buzzing with excitement as he tried to remember it all.

This was **HIS** first vampire hunt……period!

Dean caught his brother's eye, communicating in a silent glance…_.good luck, be careful, watch your back.. _Sam held his gaze trying to impart the same, but also vainly trying to hide the inner turmoil of fear and concern for his brother and father. Dean reached over and gave Sam's shoulder a brief squeeze, and then with a wry smile and a nod in acknowledgment of what Sam didn't say, he followed after their father. Sam stayed a moment longer, watching as Dean began his slow descent, then grabbed his bag and set off for his own designated position.

Having rehearsed their plan for the past week, he knew exactly where the others would be. Thus synchronised, they all arrived at their allotted positions at about the same time.

Poised with his machete hanging at his side, loaded crossbow in his hand and his duffel resting not far from him; Sam watched as his family walked around the cabin, each heading in opposite directions, checking for rear doors, windows - any avenues of escape the vampires might use. It was also good intel for them as well, in case the hunt went south and they had to make a quick exit. The two met as planned at the front entrance. Heads shook once in the negative. Their silent communication relaying to each other there were no other forms of egress. Only one-way in and one-way out.

Now or never, Sam thought.

He saw his father count down silently with his fingers as Dean watched -- three, two, one -- and with a closed fist for zero both of them barged in.

Sam rose up, his blood pumping in his ears, the machete hitting his left hip within its holster at the sudden upward movement. He brought the crossbow up and aimed it at the cabin's entrance. His camouflage of trees and scrub forming a natural hiding place from which he could shoot and not be seen by the vampires.

High screeching screams of surprise and low guttural growls echoed toward him from the cabin. Thumps, thuds and crashes could be heard continuously. Shouts of "Dad!" and "Dean!" were repeated over and over again, accompanied by more manic sounds of soft objects colliding with sudden force against immovable solid surfaces.

Sam's adrenalin pumped through his body at an alarming rate -- ready to move, to shoot, to kill. He moved away from his hidden vantage point, the excitement of the moment quashing his father's instructions of staying put till the fighting was over. He slid gently down the side of the embankment, coming to a stop at the bottom. Steadying himself, he brought his weapon up just as someone exited the cabin, running for the surrounding forest.

She was a young girl, about the same age as Sam. Long blonde hair flew behind her as she ran from the carnage inside. She tripped, stumbled then fell to the ground upon her hands. Her hair fell down one side of her face.

Sam hesitated for a moment. Could she be human?

He'd read that vampires sometimes took human prisoners, often keeping them secluded away to feed upon for weeks. Could she have been a hostage that escaped the clutches of the vampires? Did either dad or Dean release her? But that would be dangerous – they knew he was out here and what he was supposed to do to anyone coming outside.

He leant forward, his uncertainty halting any steps to move closer. Curiosity, fear and his natural tendency to want to help someone in need warred within him.

A thin layer of cloud partially unveiled the sun, letting the rays of its wan light envelope the young girl as she slightly tilted her head towards him, and in this brief moment Sam was instantly smitten by her beauty. Her hair was like spun gold, her features fine and elfin like, pale skin luminescent as it reflected the cloud thinned rays from the sun. He felt something stirring within him as he studied her. A warm flush crept over his body, his breath quickening and his heart beginning to race as he continued to observe her kneeling on the muddy ground.

_She's beautiful._

He'd read that vampires were uncannily fast and agile. Their once human capabilities enhanced ten-fold once they'd succumbed to the bite of a vampire. With scant factual information about them he turned to fiction and discovered a multitude of 19th century Victorian stories that contained romanticised references to both the male and female having an "unnatural beauty" and "an inhuman grace" that some humans found irresistible.

Could this be what moved him so?

Was she a vampire using her 'talents' to get the better of him?—Sensing that he was already unsure and wanting to cast further doubt upon his wavering reason?

Or had the vampires captured this innocent, beautiful young girl, captivated by her as much as he? And the arrival of dad and Dean aided to release her from her abductors, fully aware that Sam was outside and armed but knowing he would deduce what she really was before a shot was fired.

Sam found that he desperately wanted her to be an innocent, an abducted young girl, freed by his family. She was too beautiful and human to be anything else, but he wasn't sure. Up until now all the evil he had ever come across were spirits or deformed beasts. Surely beauty could not be malicious?

He had to make sure either way and there was only one course of action he could take to be certain.

"Um…Miss?" Sam enquired, peering closer but failing to get a full look at her face, it still being partially obscured by her long hair.

"Um…ah…excuse me, Miss?" Sam stepped closer.

She slowly brought her arms up, brushing her hair away from her face and behind her ears giving him an unimpeded view. Then she rested her hands on her thighs, as if to get up, fingers curling under her palms.

She gave a soft plaintive sigh, like wind chimes tinkling in a warm afternoon breeze. "Help me?" Her voice was silk.

_God, she's gorgeous._

Sam's heart melted.

He leant down, his hand automatically reaching out to help her up. He glanced at her wrists. They were alabaster white and showed no signs of bruising or restraints. She had the smooth skin of a young child - totally unblemished, pure and wrinkle free.

Something was niggling at the back of his mind. He'd read somewhere about pure white skin and vampires.

What was the name of that book by someone called Rice?

The girl turned her face towards him and smiled. She parted her small red lips to show delicate pearl white teeth then expanded them wider to allow her fangs to extend from her gums filling her mouth with thin instruments to stab and tear.

His hunter's instincts instantly rebelled, jerking his body backwards just in time to miss her taloned nails slicing upwards towards his throat. Momentum and adrenalin propelled him away from her. His crossbow fell from his hand as his long legs forced him to move up on the damp earth, trying to gain some grip on its slippery surface. His back slammed into the trunk of a tree, legs shaking, arms hanging by his side. His chest heaved as he braced himself against it.

Elegantly she rose, keeping her eyes upon him the whole time. She held him with her piercing blue eyes, her small pink tongue licking her lips, as if already savouring the meal that was to come.

Sam was mesmerised in horror by her now twisted predatory beauty - his gaze never leaving the curvature of her face. Unable to move, he felt like a mouse caught in the hypnotic thrall of a cobra's stare. The cold trickle of fear running down his spine made him shiver.

She saw this and grinned evilly.

"You're going to taste so sweet, hunter," she purred, as her gaze roamed over his body. "I'm going to make **them** pay for what is happening to my family by making you part of mine."

Sam wanted his father, his brother to come out and save him. They would know what to do. They always did.

He tried to call for help but it only came out as a whimper.

He was going to die. If he didn't do something and fast, his first vampire hunt would be his last. He needed something, anything that would give him a slight advantage.

He tried to turn away but his eyes compelled him otherwise – he must watch the deadly beauty in front of him. He chewed at his lower lip in fright, the blood welling underneath forming a blood blister. He almost didn't notice the prickle of pain, but then it was as if a switch had been thrown in his head.

Her spell was broken.

_That's it! Pain!_

Coming to his senses, he bit down on his lip, hard. His teeth had already broken the blister and were now working away at it, encouraging the pain and the blood to dribble down his chin.

He wanted her to make the first move and he knew exactly how to tempt her into it.

If I can just get her to…

She caught the sight and the scent of the blood. Her eyes enlarged with greed, her mouth opening wider with bloodlust, exposing all of her fangs as she lunged towards him. Sam reached across to his left thigh, brought his right arm up, hand tightly gripping the machete and slipping it out of its sheath to connect with her lunge forward, slicing her head off with one clean cut.

Her body 'thunked' at his feet blood splashing over his shoes and on his face, the smell of iron and rot wafting over him. The sickening plop, plop of her head could be heard as it rolled down towards the cabin.

Sam turned to the side, fell to his knees and vomited. His body convulsed till there was nothing left in his stomach. His head began to throb.

He'd just killed his first vampire. He told himself he should be ecstatic. He'd followed his father's lessons and had come out victorious. His dad and Dean would be proud. But all he could feel was uncertainty. Her death didn't _feel _right to him. He knew she was evil, and that evil should be killed. Their father had drummed this into both of them from a young age. And from seeing the way his father and Dean did it, he'd always assumed it would be the right thing for him to do too and that it would feel that way.

_Is there something wrong with me, that I don't like killing evil as much as Dean does?_

_But do I want to? Is this want I want to become?_

_A killer?_

Wiping her splattered blood off his face with the cuff of his left sleeve, he leant back against the tree, taking deep breaths to try and steady his breathing and racing heart. He gripped his blood caked machete tighter, trying to stop the shaking of his hands.

_No, no, I can't afford to think like this!_

He dropped his chin against his chest, dislodging the tears of fright that had pooled in his eyes. He shook them away, and sniffed.

_I'm on a hunt, no time for doubts - dad and Dean need me._

Stooping, he wiped the vestiges of the vampire's blood off his machete upon the grass near his feet, and then sheathed it.

Sam levered himself away from the tree, and stepped over the body of the girl, inadvertently glancing down. He could feel his conscience beginning to prickle him with his misgivings.

_Focus, Sam, stay focussed._

He returned to the cleared area before the cabin, picking up his crossbow on the way.

What had started out as a frenzied fight had petered out to only the occasional growl and thump being heard from the confines of the place. No more vampires exited for which he was only too grateful.

The lack of emerging vampires was of no great concern to Sam. It meant that his father and Dean were doing their job and doing it well. The fact that his family had yet to reappear, if in fact all the vampires had been vanquished, was what worried him the most.

"Watchout!"

That was his father's voice.

There was a shattering of glass, a gunshot, a growl and a familiar epithet of…"Son of a bitch!"

"_Dean_!" John yelled.

Sam ran to the doorway.

Only one thing could make his father shout like that -- extreme danger for one of his sons. Sam was on the outside and safe, which meant…..

"Dean!" Sam yelled as loudly as his father, colliding with his back as the latter backed into the entrance.

Sam felt the heat before he could see what was happening inside.

Fire!

Somehow a fire had started and Dean was on the other side of it. Away from safety, away from escape, _away from them_.

He could see Dean's shape shimmering through the haze of flames. He was moving backwards as if someone was advancing upon him. It could only mean one thing - a vampire!

Not all of them had been killed as Sam first thought.

"Dad! What…?" Sam couldn't finish, so intent was he on watching the partially obscured figures dance their way around each other. He could still see enough to notice a feint, a dodge and an avoidance of a weapon being thrust towards an adversary, but he couldn't tell anymore which was which.

The flames grew with the abundance of fuel in the cabin - hammocks that hung between uprights ignited at the barest caress of a flame, rivulets of fire ran along the ropes that tied them to the beams, then onwards and upwards to the ceiling, gaining momentum with every dry molecule they consumed. Having no life of its own, the fire mocked it in its voraciousness for any combustible that stood in its way. Devouring the dry tinder and refuse that lay around the cabin floor it grew and grew, creating a breeze of dry heat that blew in the face of the shocked watchers at the front door.

"I….I…we'd finished, I turned …then …" His father's voice stopped and started, as if searching for the right words.

Sam attempted to push past him, to get to Dean, to save him. He brought his crossbow up, trying to sight the vampire but couldn't tell the two figures apart anymore than he had before. Sweat broke out all over him, the heat before him growing more intense by the moment. He'd have to get closer.

"No!" John grabbed at Sam's shirt as he attempted to pass.

"Fuck off!" Sam yelled as he attempted to dislodge his father's vice like grip. "I have to save him!"

"Sam, listen to me!" John shouted over the rage of the fire. "You won't be able to get close enough, not without trapping yourself in there too."

"I don't care!" Sam screamed in his father's face, spittle splattering the latter's cheeks. They were eye-to-eye, close enough to see the fire reflected in each other eyes, highlighting the stubbornness of gaze and line of face.

"I have to save him!" Sam pleaded, frantic. He had to do something and had to do it now!

"And who's going to save you?!" John screamed back with equal volume, stubbornness and fervour.

They stood studying each other for what seemed like minutes – locked in a war of wills over the rescue of Dean.

The sudden crack and collapse of a roof beam brought their attention back to the other battle going on in front of them.

Grunts and groans could be heard emanating from the centre of the cabin. Sam couldn't be sure if it was coming from the fight or if it was the natural sound of the fire consuming the building. Two vague figures could still be seen moving through the heat haze -- and then nothing. Falling debris and a sudden rising of the wall of fire obliterated their view of who might have won the fight. Smoke billowed out towards them, the familiar scent of death amongst its folds.

Sam was pushed backwards out the door, his father using his body as a shield against the heat and flames and a wedge to get him moving, forcing him towards the safety of open ground. He felt warmth brush his face as the lean- to collapsed. Sam saw his father wince as the heat wave slapped against him, bringing with it the stench of burnt flesh mingled with smoke. He could hear wood groaning under duress, the explosive crack of glass bottles, the hissing of flames as they consumed more fuel.

Sam's legs scissored backwards, trying to keep him upright, unable to counter his father's thrust. His gaze never left the cabin entrance. Hoping beyond all hope that at any moment his brother would walk out unscathed from this battle – like a phoenix from the flames. Yet the longer the fire burned and he did not appear, the more the ugly truth washed over him.

Sam felt his father's hands release themselves from his shirt, his push to keep him back ended. Sam's line of sight was suddenly broken by his father's face, who was looking at him intently. His father's gaze captured his and Sam wasn't at all surprised to find his own emotions mirrored there_…guilt_, _acceptance, loss…_ Tears filled his eyes and ran unchecked down his cheeks.

Both heads snapped towards the cabin as an almighty crash boomed through the glen. They watched as the roof of the cabin folded in upon itself, bringing down the walls.

The sickly sweet smell of burnt flesh wafted over them. Sam brought his forearm up against his nose to try and stifle the smell, knowing to whom it most probably belonged.

Nothing human could have lived through that.

His tears morphed into those of cold realization and pain.

"NOOOOOO!" Sam cried as he dropped his head towards his father's waiting shoulder.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N Thank you so much to everyone that has reviewed. Your comments give me the inspiration to write on. Thank you also to those that read and don't review and to the ones that put me in their favourite authors alert lists……I'm flattered . I know that you're out there and for whatever reason you chose not to comment that's your prerogative. Thanks for being there anyway.**

**Thank you also to my fabulous beta, Maya. Her arsenal of pointed sticks have 'helped' me to write the story the way it should be written. I cannot thank her enough.**

**The second quote is from Alfred, Lord Tennyson.**

**Remember that this story is AU and this chapter is from Sam's memory.**

**Chapter 4**

**1998**

_The hardest part of anything is the beginning, and the second hardest part is letting go.E Fritz_

_Dean was dead,Dean was dead,Dean was dead,Dean was dead,Dean was dead…_

Three simple words circling around in an endless loop. So innocuous on their own but meaning so much more when tied together. Sam's own endless Gordian knot of pain.

He was enclosed in warmth but didn't really feel it. It'd been only a few moments since the _(don't think about it, oh God, don't think about it)_ happened, yet it might as well have been a lifetime. He was still in his father's arms, something so unusual it only added to the feeling of disjointedness already crowding around him. His father was so close he could feel him shaking. There was a slight shift, a momentary loss of bodily contact and heat, followed by a cold so deep it couldn't possibly be real. Then the warmth was back again and he felt a hand tightly grip the loose fabric at the back of his shirt.

He was then encircled by his father's arms, the soft fabric of his shirt rubbing his cheek.

Sam smelled sweat mingling with his father's aftershave and cheap motel soap. Yet there was another scent rapidly making its presence known, _(don't think about it, you know you don't want to think about it)_ encroaching upon what was comfortable and familiar. But its odor was acrid and overpowering and not to be denied - smoke.

Smoke _(no, don't do it, no)_ from the fire that ruined the old cabin in the woods.

Fire that destroyed the nest of vampires, and in turn…. _(no, stop, you don't want this, you don't...)_

Consumed Dean.

The realisation rocked his fragile shield of numbness and denial, the ensuing anguish taking his strength, making his legs fail him, his forehead bumping against the broad expanse of his father's chest as he rode his grief to the cold earth.

The solid warmth stayed with him, holding him up to keep him from falling to the ground. His subconscious recognised it as his father. His palms came up of their own volition against his human support as if denying the comfort. Struggling, both of them fell to their knees together, his father making no motions of letting go.

There was a hole inside him now -- one that used to be filled by Dean. A hole Sam knew nothing was ever going to fill again. The despair was overwhelming. Never had he felt so empty and alone. The two of them were always together. Sam had believed nothing could take away his big brother. He'd had a living, breathing security blanket that was always there for him, would always be there for him no matter what.

The knowledge that his brother was gone was more than Sam could stand.

He knew there was no way anything could have survived that inferno. Yet he still wanted to believe otherwise.

He had to.

He needed to.

A world without his brother in it beyond his comprehension.

He'd seen Dean fighting before the roof caved in. Had watched him intently through the burning flames and haze of smoke as he fought off the vampire. He'd been alive then. There was always a chance his bigger than life brother, his idol, his hero had saved himself somehow. And any moment now he would come out from under a scarred timber or roof beam and grin his devilish grin. He'd saunter over to them, casually wiping the soot and debris off his clothing like it was lint, stinking to high heaven of smoke, then with an adrenalin boosted cry of whoo hoo! and fists pumping in the air at the successful completion of another hunt, he'd join them together in a comraderly hug. That's what Sam needed. That's what Sam desperately wanted to happen.

_But not this time_ the little voice of reason postulated -- her voice so much louder than the whirlwind of wishful thoughts in Sam's head.

Sam raised his face and looked past his father towards the still burning cabin. He wanted to still the voice by showing her, through his eyes, his brother brazenly walking out from the ashes of destruction like a phoenix. He desperatley wanted to refute her claims and stared intently at it. As if by his will alone he could pull his brother from under the debris.

His watery gaze searched his surroundings, eyes blinking from the sting of smoke mixed with his own tears as he tried to make them focus. He scanned the scorched ground, seeing the remains of the lean to that was near the front door, looking for the entrance. He didn't find what he was searching for. There wasn't even a wall to hold a door anymore. He looked beyond to where the main living quarters were, the place he remembered Dean and the vampire fighting. His gaze lingered there -- waiting, watching.

Embers flew up from the flames, lighting the night, twisting and dancing in the air then snuffed out and eaten by the darkness as their fuel was consumed, their short lives ended.

Remnants of broken beams reached up, like ribs from a flesh stripped carcass.

But he saw nothing emerge from the pyre.

This time death had finally snared her bounty.

She had her prize...

Sam's most priceless possession - his brother.

He hid his head again, his despair a muffled, sometimes silent open mouthed cry against the warm flannel of his father's shirt. He didn't notice the fire beginning to die, or the ache in his knees as he was half supported by the warm body that was still shaking and trembling just like his.

Moisture ran through his hair and he was momentarily distracted by the trickling sensation and wondered where it came from. He felt it traverse its way down the side of his face. It was then he recalled the weight by his head and realized with a shock what it, no, they were.

His father's tears.

This frightened him to the core.

If there was a bastion of strength stronger than his brother, it was their father -- the ever stoic John Winchester.

Who did not cry.

Who was a man, a hunter.

Who could not, would not break. But if these were his tears, truly his tears, then...then he too thought that...

So what hope was their for him, with his gossamer thread of hope tied around his heart, which threatened to break at the slightest tug at the loss of childish faith, if his father, the embodiment of everything that was strong in their world, was even now crumbling in his arms?

He felt his father shudder and his grip tighten as he held Sam close. Sam wanted to bury his grief, these unwanted truths, into the soft flannel. To bury himself as deep as he could. To get away from this overpowering pit that threatened to swallow him whole and never let him go. To smother himself away in avoidance.

Yet his mind betrayed him and presented a private showing of what he did not wish to see or hear.

_Hungry flames._

_Dean._

_The roof collapsing._

_Death!_

"Noooooooooo!" He moaned helplessly, his voice and spirit weak, as he slapped his hand ineffectually against the broadness of his father's chest.

His father just clung to him harder as if he too was trying to escape the truth.

_Dean was dead. _

_Dean was dead. _

_Dean__was __dead. _

The cold of the forest air met the intense warmth generated by the cabin fire, creating soft white clouds around them. Hot ash swirled at their feet in small eddies as they slowly spread and rose. Sam vaguely registered the fact the tips of some of the trees were burning at the edge of his buried sight. He also heard the crack and fall of wooden beams, their last strength gone as the fire devoured what remained from within and without. He couldn't bear to look back at the cabin. It held nothing of interest for him now.

_Dean was dead!_

He didn't remember moving, or the hike back to the car.

A slight pressure against his back and a gentle push to keep his momentum forward was his only memory of the trek. That and heat. Rising heat. As if the fire at the cabin were trying to keep pace with them.

A jerk by the same hand pulled him up short before he plowed into something big, black and shiny. He could hardly bear to look at the beauty that his brother idolised as she glimmered in front of him. He was almost sick at the thought that he'd never ride with Dean in the driver's seat again or lark around with him in the back. His stomach roiled, bile rising up his throat and he had to quickly turn and spit out the phlegm of his grief. He wiped the snot from around his nose with a shaking hand, rubbed it on his jeans, and ran the cuff of his shirt against his eyes as the black blur finally focused.

His hand automatically reached for the rear passenger door handle.

_You're shotgun now, Sammy. You need to move to the other door._

He mumbled to himself, "No. No. No. No." as his hand froze with indecision, caught in the moment of longing to be in the front seat and the guilt of how it came to be.

_I can't…I can't…_

_I don't have the right…it's not my place…not my place…_

_I don't want it...I'm not shotgun…Dean..._

"Sammy..."

He turned his head quickly at the term of endearment. His heart pumped with excitement as he searched for the voice that shouldn't be yet was, one he would recognise anywhere -- the voice that was a part of him and always would be.

_But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still_

His gaze darted along the edge of the clearing, scanning the forest floor and beyond. But there was no one there.

He only found the silence and the stark reality that just he and his father were left alive.

"Sammy, get in the car." His father's rasp boomed in the silence from within the car as he partially opened the front passenger door from the inside.

Sam hesitated, taking one last look over his shoulder, waiting a moment longer, for something, for anything, for someone. Positive, even as a part of him chided him, that it wasn't his father who called his name the first time.

His hand gripped the cold steel of the door as he paused.

A door that was as cold as the dying hope in his heart.

He heard nothing. He saw nothing. His brother was dead.

He climbed into the chilled interior of the impala, the leather squeaking in protest as he settled inside. He gently closed the door, cocooning himself from the glaring truths on the outside.

Sam glanced across at his father, who had moved back to the driver's side.

He studied his profile - the bent head and cowed shoulders. Barely daring to breathe, Sam reached across the cold space between them and placed his hand on a trembling shoulder.

His father flinched under the soft touch. Sam shied away and shifted to pull his hand back, but before he could do so his father's hand came up to clasp his own.

Sam didn't dare move, didn't dare do anything, his mind already reeling from too many things which shouldn't be.

Then the moment was broken as the hand that held his gave a soft squeeze and let go. It moved across his father's face and wiped away his tears, then smeared them on his worn jeans. John gave an embarassed cough as Sam slowly moved his hand back. He stared in amazement and perhaps a little fear as his father took a deep shuddering breath and sat up straight, his broken pieces snaping back together, even if not exactly into the same positions as before, making him appear whole again. His hand rose to the ignition and his father turned the impala's engine over.

The rumble of the machine worked up Sam's feet, legs, and back into his bones, the familiar comfort of the feel and sound echoing in the emptiness. His dad put the car in gear. He was ready for them to move, to go, to leave this place of destruction and desolation.

To leave a crucial part of both of them behind.

Sam looked out into the side view mirror -- a tiny kernel of hope still trying to stay aflame.

But as the burning forest grew smaller behind them, his sight blured with tears he didn't notice, which went on to spill down his cheeks.

_Dean was dead. Dean was dead. Dean was dead!_

The drive back to their cheap motel room was quiet -- graveyard quiet.

It was as if the whole world knew what had transpired in the forest.

Just gathering the energy to open the door and get out of the car seemed to take forever.

Sam heard his father lock the car, then rattle the keys into the motel room door. He allowed himself to be led into the vaguely familiar place. Dark, cold and quiet greeted him as he entered. He felt his father leave his side.

"Get some sleep." A warm touch to the back of the neck, a light push to send him off in the right direction.

Sam heard his father walk away towards the kitchenette, turning on the light switch. As if he were sleepwalking, locked into some bitter nightmare, Sam turned and watched him as he reached up to retrieve a bottle of scotch and a glass, placed them on the chipped table, then dragged a chair from under it and dropped down into it.

Sam stood there a moment longer, numb. He must have made some sort of noise for his father looked up towards him, eyeing him as if he'd only just noticed him still standing there.

The chair creaked under him as he rose, before he walked over towards Sam.

"Go to bed son." His voice was gravelly, a residue from the smoke and silent crying.

"I…I…don't want to..." He whined, body refusing to be coerced into entering a cold vacant bedroom. Dean would have told him he was being stupid, but Sam couldn't help but fear that if he lost sight of his father now, he too would leave him. Then he would be irrevocably alone.

His father sighed. It wasn't a sigh of defeat or resignation but of acceptance. He left for a moment to open the nearby closet, reaching in for the spare blanket and pillow.

He motioned Sam towards the old sofa and putting the pillow at one end prompted him to lie down. His father turned on the TV across from it, the sound turned low. He then tucked the blanket around him. Sam felt the gentle brushing of fingers along his brow as his eyelids became heavy, a gentle reminder of other fingers and other times when this simple action had brought him peace. And though they were not the same, a part of him denied it and still took comfort in it, and allowed him to drift off to sleep still feeling the warmth of a hand over his brow.

Sometime later, he awoke to the loud clinking of glass and mumbled words.

He sat up and spotted his father still sitting at the kitchenette table. He thought for a moment that he was dreaming, or must not have slept at all, as this scene was the same as moments after they'd entered the motel room.

Sam then looked at the scotch bottle and noticed it was half empty. He remembered that it was full when his father first drew it from the cupboard. Then how long...?

He sat frozen watching his father. He counted the sips his father took to swallow the shot, noticing that they were getting bigger and the hand shakier.

What childlike belief he still held that his father was invincible and strong quickly crumbled away at the sight in front of him. For there, sitting near him, head bowed, was a broken man. Pale soot covered face, etched with new grooved age lines, tears running freely down waxen cheeks only to fall into limp upturned hands, his whole body shuddering and shaking from sadness and shock.

A sad, bereft man whose blank cold face was haloed by the light from the naked bulb above him, making him appear almost ghostly.

"My boy... My poor boy..." The pain gathered in the words was sharp, screaming of things broken.

Sam was too stunned to move. He'd never seen his father like this. He barely recognized the man before him and didn't know what to do.

Of course he'd heard and seen the late night commotions over the years when his father had resorted to finding solace at the bottom of a bottle after a bad hunt as well as the resulting swearing and cursing as Dean played nurse and patched his wounds. That side of his father he was used to seeing and hearing. It was familiar to him. So were the rare times when the weight of the world seemed to be crushing him, trying to drive him through the ground, when he didn't seem to know his sons or the rest of the world existed and Dean tried so hard to keep Sam from seeing. But to have him be like this? To witness such an open outpouring of grief was alien -- it went against everything he knew. Dean had always been there to smooth things over, to cajole his father's wounded soul into leaving the bottle alone, sometimes to talk. Sam had often heard murmurings coming from outside his bedroom door late at night, sotto voiced words that sounded like "Mary" and "your mother", followed by a peaceful silence then gentle sobbings. He'd never truly thought to link such emotions to his stalwart of a father.

"Mary… I tried ….. " His dad seemed to collapse into himself over the table the shot glass craddled in his arms. "I'm so sorry, so sorry….please look after our boy."

Sam's chin quivered at the cold realization that his father had lost not one but two loved ones to a fire under different circumstances. To Sam, that night long ago was but a vague, surreal history. Something that Dean and his father never talked about, or if they did, the conversation was quickly stifled when Sam entered the room. But unlike him, his father had _lived_ it. To him it wasn't a sad tale, but something he witnessed, suffered through. And now he had just gone through it again -- as helpless to save his son as he had been then to save his wife.

Sam had lost a mother he never knew and now his brother. His father had lost both his wife and his oldest son. And Dean wouldn't be here to help him past it.

Jumping to his feet, Sam threw his blanket to the floor and rushed over to his father, his eyesight blurring as he reached for him. "_Dad_!"

His father looked momentarily stunned by his sudden rush, but then gripped him in a tight bear hug and buried his face in his long hair.

"I'm so sorry, dad," Sam mumbled, pain stabbing his teenage heart.

"Wha..?" The voice was slurred and the reek of alcohol surrounded him like a cloak.

Sam clung to him, desperately trying to find the words for things he couldn't quantify for himself let alone explain to another. "For…for the two fires..."

His father jerked against him, followed by a sharp intake of breath.

Sam had always been told he was a smart kid, that he was the brains of the family. For once he wished he wasn't. He wished he'd been born dumb and couldn't put two and two together, unable to link the recent fire to what his father would be remembering of the past. To not be able to imagine the double pain he was suffering and which Sam had been totally oblivious to, selfishly only thinking of his own loss.

"Oh, Sammy," his father's voice broke, his last modicum of strength shattering and falling away.

Sam held him close, trying to give back some of what he received out in the forest – support, comfort, warmth, the knowledge he was not alone. A shuddering breath shook his father from top to bottom. Sam only clung harder. A mournful moan turned into a sob. Sam prepared himself to ride the waves of grief that had been released by the uninhibiting effects of alcohol. He shed more tears himself, frightened by the depths of his father's pain, but this time he decided to be the one to 'suck it up' and was determined to be strong for his father, to be there for him. His father needed _him_ now, and there was no one else to comfort him

They huddled together for a time, until Sam felt him grow quiet. He could_ sense_ the change in his father's demeanour, felt the slight alteration in his posture. He shyly looked into his face. The mask was back, his father's eyes revealing nothing, yet at the same time he seemed better than since the whole ugliness began.

Reluctantly, he pulled himself away from his father, knowing that his warmth and comfort were no longer required. His hands continued to rest on his father's forearms though, still unwilling to lose the last vestiges of human contact. He inadvertently bumped the table as his hands finally relinquished their touch and his body began to move away, causing the glass to teeter near the edge. He grabbed for it instinctively, causing the liquid golden contents to splash over his hand.

He started at the strong smell of it, remembering too clearly his recent introduction to the stuff in what now felt like a lifetime ago. His stomach roiled as if it too remembered. Sam was sure he would never be able to look at a bottle of scotch without recalling that bittersweet time. But now that memory had been tainted and if there was one good moment for him to keep from all of this, he didn't want that one sullied – his brother's last lesson to him. So, he raised the glass in a toast.

"To...to..." Sam cleared his throat, his voice breaking before he could utter the next word. He paused to compose himself, and raised his glass again.

"To Dean!" He forced the words out before his throat constricted at the memories, and quickly took a small sip of the scotch.

His father looked up at him for a moment with red rimmed unreadable eyes then slowly stood and took the glass from Sam. Balancing himself with a hand on Sam's shoulder, he leaned down to thump the glass on the chipped tabletop -- as if affirming the sentiment behind the toast by the loudness by which it echoed in the small kitchenette.

Sam's head drooped and he suddenly stifled a yawn with the cuff of his shirt. He wiped at his nose before he let his arm drop to his side. Though he only took a small sip, between the long day, his wrung heart, and empty stomach, it was quickly working its way through his system, making him tired and lethargic.

"Samuel, you need sleep. There are things to do in the morning."

Sam glanced at him and was about to refute the suggestion, wanting to be there for him, knowing his father would not be going to sleep, when another yawn made itself known.

This time the push in the direction of the bedroom was a lot more forceful.

Sam ambled off, but not before he gave his father one last look. Their eyes met and they shared a moment of silent communication. They both wanted to go back to the cabin. They weren't going to fool themselves that they'd find anything there but they needed this extra step to give themselves some sort of closure – a way to cement the awful truth.

Sam opened his bedroom door and closed it softly behind him. He could just see the two single beds in the wan moonlight that filtered through the curtains. One was relatively neat the other plain messy. He stood there a moment and surveyed both of them. He then moved to the messy bed and grabbed the leather jacket Dean had opted not to take at the last minute.

Sighing he flicked off his shoes, then his jeans, leaving only his boxers and undershirt before climbing into bed.

Into Dean's bed.

He pulled the covers up and around his shoulders, enveloping himself in his brother's essence. He buried his face in the pillow, smelling Dean, inhaling Dean, smothering himself in Dean with as much breath as he could take. He brought Dean's leather jacket closer to his chest. The warmth from his body increased the scent of the leather and of his brother. He knew this wouldn't last for long. Soon his own scent would take over, but for now it was all he had left of a much loved, idolised brother and he wasn't willing to let that go. Not at all. For a moment he contemplated leaving his new haven for his own bed. But his little brother fear of not wanting to let go kept him stationery.

He drifted slowly into the arms of Morpheus but it was a road less well travelled. Tears and memories paved his way with sharp stones of guilt and boulders of helplessness, leading him to a chasm of grief he could find no bridge with which to cross. He tossed and turned throughout what remained of the night, his restless sleep full of vampires, fire, Dean and death.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

**Well here we are again my faithful readers. Are you still with me?….smiles encouragingly **

**I may not be regular in my updates but I promise to finish this story. I won't be rude and leave you in the lurch……cross my heart and may the boys salt and burn me if I break it …lol**

**Authors notes: **

**The song lyrics are from Viva la Vida by Coldplay They've been my muse-ical inspiration throughout this chapter. Happy namedone? I was thinking of you..**

**The quote is attributed to Sherlock Holmes.** **The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**Thank you to my readers and reviewers. You keep me going when I begin to doubt myself.**

**And lastly, a heartfelt hug of gratitude to my beta, Maya Perez. This fic would be nothing without her steadying and calming hand upon my erratic typings and wavering thoughts. Also, her endless supply of pointed sticks have scarred me into accepting her corrections and suggestions, and steered this story to where it should be….HUGS….**

**Chapter 5**

**Present Day**

_Those who are dead are not dead  
They're just living in my head  
And since I fell for that spell  
I am living there as well  
Oh..._

_**Coldplay……42**_

For a moment, Sam couldn't remember where he was.

He felt awareness come to him in stages as he lay very still, waiting for his memory to catch up with his senses. He was aware of the give of a lumpy, soft mattress beneath him and the tangle of sheets and a light comforter twisted between his jean-clad legs. A damp flannel, now sour-smelling, was pressed against his cheek.

He ran his tongue across dry lips, then pulled them against his teeth trying to resist the urge to suck in the saliva that had trickled from the corner of his mouth during his slumber. He started as he again inhaled the putrid scent from the flannel and moved his head away. The dull pounding of his blood hummed menacingly behind his eyes, gathering at the back of his head as if for another assault. Breathing in slow even sets, Sam calmed his body and the throbbing in his head subsided.

Forcing his heavy eyes open, he then slid a clumsy hand up to his face and rubbed stiff fingers over his skin. He pushed the smelly flannel away and onto the floor, the stench of it making him nauseous. Rolling over very slowly onto his side, he dug the grit from his lashes and sighed deeply as he stared at the ceiling above him.

He noticed it was getting darker outside as he settled back against the warm sheets. The setting sun cast eerie golden yellow shadows through the gap between his motel room curtains. Silence hung around him like a haze and he took some comfort in it. He personally knew what could reside in the inky blackness but for a few short moments he could wallow in the solitude. His body sank further into the soft lumpiness of the mattress, making the most of the quiet of the night. That was until his senses re-aligned themselves and snapped him back to reality.

It all came back to him.

The memories...

_The c__abin…_

_Young girls…_

_Vampires…_

_Flames..._

_Dean…_

_Death…_

They all jumbled around in his head, some blending, others lingering, barely recognizable on the edge of his mind's periphery.

He should get out of bed. Continue with his research. Try to find out where the nest of vampires was hidden. But it'd been getting harder and harder for him to drag himself out of his own lethargy once it took hold. This hunt had done nothing for him but bring back unpleasant and morbid memories. He wished he'd never found that girl. That he hadn't been able to correlate all the subtle clues that had led him to solving the murders. He wished now that he'd never begun this hunt. It was just getting to be too much for him to handle.

He wanted nothing more right then than to lay there in the dark and let the silence seep into him – to hide away in its black cloak and forget the last few days ever happened. To wait for daybreak when he could leave this god-forsaken place and get the hell out of Dodge.

But his conscience convinced him otherwise.

He broke the room's quiet with a heavy sigh. He'd accepted this life long ago and all that came with it. Nothing good would come of this if he didn't get his sorry self-pitying ass into gear. There was no one else that he could give this to or turn to for guidance or support.

There was only him.

Young girls had been brutally murdered – or rather slaughtered, as he had underlined in his notes with his red marker. The way they'd died, been tortured, was just plain sickening. Even cats, who toyed with their prey, would eventually give the kill stroke. They didn't let their victims linger on in a haze of pain and despair and watch them bleed to death amidst taunts and jests.

The cops had no idea at all about the crimes, as he'd discovered after he hacked into their computer system and downloaded a copy of their reports. The authorities were still in the dark about why the girls were killed and by whom. They were totally clueless on the links between the blood bank thefts, the girls' bloodless bodies, and possibly even the livestock bites. Not in any of the towns where bodies were actually found, did they look at anything past the bite marks and what they might really mean, or the fact the teeth marks didn't match those of any known animal.

Their total willing ignorance of what was out there murdering those girls made Sam roll his eyes heavenward.

"It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Sam quoted this verbatim to the quiet room remembering the axiom he'd read in a detective novel a long time ago.

And Sam, the hunter, had found the truth.

He also knew what he needed to do now.

He pushed himself out of bed, despite his reluctance to leave the warmth behind. But he knew that his sorry self was the only thing that might stand between the vampires and their next victim. It wasn't vanity. It wasn't fulfilling a hero complex. It just was.

After that dark day, when his family had lost so much, he'd no longer had any doubts as to what he was – a hunter, a killer. Monsters, vampires, ghosts, they were all good, all fine. He could kill them till the cows came home. Even demons hiding inside their stolen human hosts -- though that had taken a bit of getting used to. He'd hesitated at his first exorcism. Watching humans writhe within the Devil's Trap as he'd chanted the Latin verse unnerved him a lot. _They're still human, innocent fragile civilians, captured and tortured by evil._ His conscience had railed against his training. _You have to find another way to save them! To give them a better fighting chance! _ And to his credit he'd searched for other ways to try and ease them from their demonic possession. But there was nothing else. Every time he began an exorcism there was no way to know if the host would survive. Most demons rode their meat suits into the ground. Once he'd vanquished the evil, there was usually nothing left…the mind, body and soul of a once living entity gone. Null and void. For a time he'd had trouble accepting it. He'd avoided hunts with even the minute possibility of them involving demons. He even tried to reevaluate and change his beliefs to match those of his father, that a thing was either good or it was evil, and that there wasn't room for shades of grey, all in the hope it would makes things easier.

He had fooled no-one but himself. He was no Dean, or John for that matter – he couldn't filter out the things he saw and felt, the facts that told him nothing was that easy and clear cut. He was who he was.

He shuffled across the room to his laptop and turned it on. As it hummed to life he turned towards his duffel, grabbed a fresh change of clothes and lay them on the bed, then took his toiletry bag and headed for the bathroom. On his way he glanced at the bedside clock and noticed that it was nearly 7:30 pm. He'd slept most of the day away.

He thought about getting something to eat and his stomach grumbled its agreement.

_But not before I have a shower._ _I reek._

He quickly disrobed, giving his clothes a sniff and thinking he had to do laundry sometime soon. The clothes he picked out were his last clean set. Gingerly he stepped from the cold tiled floor and into the warm cloud created by the steam from the hot water. It never ceased to amaze him how the simple action of water cascading down his body could create little rivulets of ease that had helped to calm him when he needed it over the years. He leaned his body into the shower, tilting his head up and back, inviting the droplets to splash along his exposed throat and bounce down his muscled chest. He turned his back into the spray, dipping his head down, letting the water pummel away the tension that resided there at the nape of his neck. He stood like this for a few moments, rocking gently backwards and forwards, encouraging the water to cover his back, his head, his hair, relishing the warmth until he felt the temperature drop a fraction and knew that he'd better hurry or otherwise he'd be rinsing suds and shampoo off with cold water. He quickly finished, turned the water off and dried himself, tying the towel around his waist before reaching for another to dry his mop of hair.

He'd forego using the convenience store to purchase his dinner. He was going to go to the diner around the corner from the motel, having noticed it too late after he'd bought his newspaper and microwave breakfast on his arrival. He swore to his still grumbling stomach that he'd go there as soon as he completed a bit more research. Besides, it would also provide a chance for him to gather some intel on the locals.

He felt that something was 'off' in this town. He trusted his 'hunter's nose' that something wasn't right, and it was more than the fact vampires had come here. There was something going on that he couldn't quite put his finger on. These people were hiding something under all this normality and he was sure that somehow it was linked to the girls' murders.

Sam had spent the day sleeping away the effects of his 'wake-mare' and had lost valuable research time for observing the townsfolk during daylight hours. If he was to make any headway in finding out what made this town tick then he'd have to look for its underbelly…its nightlife.

He opened up a web browser and began to investigate for places that teenagers might go to in a town like this. He got a few hits and waited for the uploads to finish.

"…_but night makes a fool of us in daylight….."_

The vocals poured into the room as his bedside radio stuttered to life. The dial wasn't quite on the correct frequency so the music came through the small speaker full of static.

Instinctively Sam reached for the salt loaded shotgun he'd left sitting next to his laptop and aimed it in the general direction of the radio.

He'd salted the doors and windows when he arrived so nothing should have been able to get in. But he wasn't taking any chances.

He waited.

Nothing happened.

The radio continued its static rendition of the song. It would break up intermittently, grow silent then come back to life. It was then that he noticed the red alarm signal silently blinking at him and he gave a snort of incredulity. Looked like the previous occupant had mistakenly set the alarm for 8:00 pm and not 8:00 am. He shook his head and rose, putting the shotgun back down and moving towards the radio with the intent of turning it off. He shivered as cold air ran over his bare skin, creating goose bumps. He'd become so engrossed in his analysis of what the inhabitants had to hide that he'd forgotten he was still clad in a bath towel. Removing the towel from around his waist along with the one he used to dry his hair, he draped both of them on the chair next to the table. He then grabbed his clothes and began to dress. His wallet fell out of his jean's pocket and opened up as it dropped spilling some of its contents on the floor.

A photograph, a faded scrap of a thing with two boys and an older man sitting on the bonnet of a black car, looked up at him from the carpet. A small boy with light-coloured hair peeking out of a beanie perched over his head was propped against the man, held close. His young innocent and too serious countenance captured by the click of a lens. The other boy, a few years older with darker hair, sat on the other side, his body leaning toward the older man, head tilted with a small smile on his face. It was a nice enough photo of his family. But Sam saw more than what the photo showed. He clearly saw the troubled innocence in his own eyes and that his brother's were different. His eyes were older than his years. Eyes that had seen things a young boy should never have had to witness. It was a look Sam had seen many times over the years, especially before he'd ferreted out the truth of what else lived in this world and what their father's part was in it, as Dean had tried to keep him unaware of what was out there. Tried to keep him safe, protected… innocent.

How he wished that he was here by his side right now.

Sam glanced away not wanting to look at it anymore; he didn't have to. He knew every shade and color, the eyes, the turn of the head, the youthfulness of them both. Every white-lined crease in the photo paper, earned from years of wanting and touching. All the secrets and unsaid things of that time in their lives.

He'd snuck the picture into his wallet the day he left home, pilfering it from his father's journal before he left to catch the bus that would take him away from hunting, away from his father and the memories of Dean. He'd known his future was waiting for him the minute he received the buff coloured envelope with the crest of Stanford University embossed on the corner. A free ride for him to escape the hunting life that he'd steadily grown to hate. Not for what he killed, not for what it had done to his father or how they had to live. But for what it had taken away from him. He'd thought for a while back then that every time he hunted it would help bring him closer to Dean. That if he embraced the hunting life wholeheartedly it would ease the burden of his loss and make him closer to his brother via something that he'd loved doing. But it hadn't. It had turned him the other way. It had been a constant reminder of what he'd lost and who was no longer by his side. It had made the emptiness in his heart that much bigger. So regardless of the fact he knew what he was – he'd embraced the possibility of becoming something else.

Memories. His family was nothing but memories to him now. It hit him like an arrow through the heart.

He firmly believed that his father wasn't dead. Even if he weren't missing he may as well have been though, for the scant contact that he'd had with him after he left.

But as more and more days passed after Dean's death they somehow became virtual strangers to one another. Each bound up in their own grief. Avoiding any mention of what happened in the forest despite what they had shared and learned about each other that day. Their evasion of the reality of what occurred had brought them neither peace nor closure, made worse by the fact they'd never found anything when they returned. And like a canker it had ulcerated and become more painful with each passing day.

Sam blamed the vampires, blamed himself, then blamed his father for risking Dean in the first place. He'd found a scapegoat that was within reach for his rage and pain and lashed out with the vitriolic tongue of a teenager. Their fights and disagreements nearly came to blows a few times and still neither of them could see how they were hurting each other. That their pain was the same. Their grief blinding them to how the other felt. They were too close to each other to see the forest for the trees. And like too many other things, this understanding had come way too late.

Then one day after a Mexican standoff in their shabby motel room, Sam had stormed out, slamming the door behind him as a physical demonstration of how utterly pissed he was with his current situation. His long legs had pistoned along the pavement leading him away from the closed confines of the motel room, away from the heavy pall of recriminations, away from his father and away from the bitter memories.

His long strides led him to a park. It was filled with young college age people lingering around over stalls festooned with brochures and pamphlets. Curious he'd walked closer and spied banners above each of the stalls. All of them brandished in huge letters the names of universities, both local and interstate. His height gave him the advantage of just looking up and seeing the name of the university without having to get close to the stand. He kept to the back of the crowds, occasionally venturing closer if something caught his eye. He really had no inclination to stop at any of them until he came to the one for Stanford. For some reason his instincts stopped him there.

He'd been greeted by a spectacled mature woman with a charming smile and a pleasant manner. He'd asked her a few general questions about the university and she'd given him what information she had at hand in the form of an introductory booklet.

He'd suddenly felt a shiver of a dream given form.

This was a place where he could just be Sam. Where he would be free to immerse himself in tomes of words that were not in latin, or were spells or incantations. A place without the blood, screams and bullets that were a constant in his life. This would be a challenge for him, an escape. He could leave his current life behind. Leave his father and his indoctrinated ideals and beliefs and the mental weariness from his increasing lack of interest.

He would also be leaving behind his memories of Dean.

Anger raised its ugly head again at the senselessness of his death. But for the first time Sam realised that this strong emotion could be channelled and used. Turned into a passion for education, for study and then towards a paying occupation instead of the day by day, hand to mouth existence that they currently had. The flimsy paper folder in his hand held more than words and pictures.

It possibly held his future.

And then he'd met Jess and everything began to fall into place. Everything felt right.

Despite the pain in his past, or maybe because of it, he'd been saved as light had returned to his life through Jessica. Nothing had seemed impossible when she was around. He'd even been able to push back the ache from the empty hole inside him for a time.

Until she too had been stolen from him, just like everything else he'd cherished.

It was as if the wheel had turned full circle and he'd been put back to where he'd originally started.

"…_.God only, God knows I'm trying my best…"_

Sam didn't need photos, or journals. He didn't need to be reminded of what he'd had, once.

He knew.

"…_..but I'm just so tired of this loneliness."_

He carried the weight of Dean's and Jess' loss with him every day – every freakin' goddam day.

"_I've become so tired of this loneliness……"_

He pounded his fist down hard onto the clock radio. It gave a protesting squawk and then was silent – instantly stopping the song that tore into his heart.

The slamming of a car door and raucous laughter from outside his motel room wrenched him back to the here and now. He finished dressing then bent down to gather the items back into his wallet. He closed his eyes as he folded the photo and shoved it back into its proper place.

He returned to the laptop to see the results of his search.

He scanned through the uploads. Some looked promising and he saved them as favourites intending to re-visit them later, others didn't tingle his 'spidey sense' so he deleted them. But then he came across one that sparked his interest. It had an unusual name, one that a few people might link to a person from history. But to him it sent alarms bells ringing right off the scale.

Club Tepes.

It couldn't be that obvious. Could it?

The name Tepes was linked to a man who most authorities believed was the basis from which Bram Stoker wrote his famous novel, Dracula.

Sam opened another web browser and typed in Vlad Tepes in the search box. He clicked on the Wikipedia link, en./wiki/VladIIItheImpaler, and scrolled down the page, eyes speed-reading through the text for useful information.

All of it could be interesting data if you had the propensity for it.

But Sam had read enough of this sort of stuff on the web and the cultish genre that surrounded it before this point. He spun his pen over his thumb and forefinger on his right hand, thinking, his knee bouncing as he mulled over the facts that he'd garnered.

The name of the night club had him intrigued. He didn't believe in coincidences. And why would a small town like this, in the middle of nowhere, have a club named after a brutal murderer who was also a connection to one of the most famous vampires of all time? This was too obvious to ignore.

_Could this somehow be their nest?_

_The sheer audacity of it stank of the undead._

A club would be a perfect cover for their activities. They were closed for the day allowing the vampires to rest or sleep and open at night for patronage and prospecting of possible victims, keeping them in cash and food. Tourists would be lured by the bright lights, loud music, happy hour and all the pretty young people in one place. They would enter the club totally unaware of what was operating under their very noses. A veritable smorgasbord of people all in one area. As long as they followed their chosen prey away from there and didn't feed off the constituency too often, it could prove quite a lucrative set up. And most of the deaths which had brought him here in the first place had occurred to the neighboring towns, so someone was playing it smart.

A sobering thought brought him up short. This could also explain some of the glimpses of aberrant behavior he'd seen from the townspeople. They _knew_ what was in their midst, but either the lure of the dollar, the intimidation from the proprietors, or some other cause, were too strong for them to overcome or acknowledge what was happening and so maintained things as they currently stood.

It was certainly plausible.

He checked his wristwatch. It was after 8:00pm. Time for dinner.

He turned the computer off, tidied up the table and returned the damp towels to the bathroom.

Sam double checked that the salt lines were still intact at the windows in all the rooms. Grabbing his duffel, he deposited the shotgun and the PT99 inside it to keep them out of sight. He didn't expect to need his weapons tonight but you never knew – which was why small vials of dead man's blood were hidden in a padded pocket in his coat along with a short wooden stake. He knew that this wasn't enough to kill a vampire. At best, it would incapacitate it and give him a chance to flee or retrieve his machete from the boot of the impala. The switchblade tucked inside his boot would have to suffice in the interim if he needed a blade of some kind. If there was one lesson he'd learned from his brother, it was never to go anywhere unarmed. Things could turn to shit when you least expected them to. And lady luck always had a blind spot when it came to the Winchesters. Some people might call it paranoia, but in his business, it was called survival. But he wasn't going to leave the firearms in the motel room – they'd be much safer and within easier reach in the trunk of the car. Shouldering into his coat then hitching the duffel over his shoulder, he patted his pockets to make doubly sure that he had his wallet, vials, and keys to the car.

He stepped out into the clear night then turned to lock the door.

Once he was done, he turned around to find his only companion for the last several years waiting patiently for him.

"Hey girl," he mumbled affectionately under his breath. "Ready to go out for a night on the town?"

Sam jangled the car keys in the air as if expecting an answer.

He was greeted with a black silence, yet one he'd led himself long ago to believe wasn't entirely empty. There was nothing but the stillness of the night and the twinkling from the polished chrome as the impala reflected the outside light shining near his motel window. His brother had always said she had a personality and presence, even a soul. After relying on her for so long, he'd come to believe it himself.

He stepped along the driver's side towards the boot, intent on placing his duffel inside and get moving. But his feet stuttered as he passed the rear passenger seat, his nightmare/memories still lurking beneath the surface of his mind.

_You're shotgun now, Sammy. You need to move to the other door._

_I can't…I can't…_

_I don't have the right…it's not my place…not my place…_

_I don't want it...I'm not shotgun…Dean..._

He stopped and waited. He knew what would come next.

Just one word. One simple word.

_Sammy._

His heart stumbled in expectation. But he didn't hear it again. Not like he heard it all those years ago. His mind tried to tell him it was his father who'd called to him, so he would get in the car and they could leave the smoldering ruins of death and destruction behind. But Sam's heart knew otherwise – even after all this time. To this day he firmly believed it was Dean who'd called out to him – no matter how insane such a thing seemed. And guilt suffused him every time he thought of it, hindsight screaming he should've gone back right then and there.

Sam and his father had returned early the next day. And nothing had been left but dry ash and debris, part of the forest gutted by the cabin's blaze. They'd half-heartedly shuffled their feet through the ruins trying to find something, anything. Not too sure of what they wanted to find but searching for it anyway. Possibly hoping for something of Dean's to appear before them – a knife, his gun, his amulet, even a piece of clothing, anything. But they'd found nothing, absolutely nothing. There was no evidence Dean had ever been there at all.

Yet he could never let go of the feeling that after all of it went wrong, Dean _had_ been there…and Sam hadn't done anything, his one chance to regain his brother lost.

He swallowed hard – as if he could force the hard lump of unwanted memories away. He partially succeeded and his feet were able to continue their original path to the boot. He dumped his duffel in and returned once again to the driver's side of the car.

His stomach grumbled loudly in the stillness. He felt strangely light headed, the dull pounding in his head making itself felt again behind his eyes.

_Must be low __blood sugar._ He rubbed his brow trying to massage the pain away, knowing why it was there yet not willing to admit it.

He reached for the door handle and suddenly stopped as he spied a small white folded note tucked under the wiper.

He knew it wasn't there when he walked past the car just moments ago. He quickly looked around, trying to spy the culprit. It wasn't all of two minutes since he left his room, so the person might still be hiding somewhere close. He heard a rustling sound and snapped around – arms, legs and body all dropping into a defensive stance. He chided himself as he spotted a sheet of newsaper caught on the hedge near the car, flapping its news to no-one in particular.

Shaking his head in consternation he moved to remove the note from the windshield.

The note was small, the letters hastily written but as he read the words they sent chills down his spine.

_**You're in danger.**_

_**Leave now!**_

He didn't know why the words affected him like this. The writing was non-descript and unfamiliar – the message itself totally vague. So why had he felt such a sense of foreboding?

Was there something he was missing? An answer just beyond his senses? Something waiting for him to discover it?

"Hello?" He called out into the night, his senses primed. Looking around, his gaze lingered by the dark corners near the waste bins, then in the deep shadows of trees and bushes expecting to see movement.

"Is anyone there? I won't hurt you." He hoped his friendly tone would coax his hidden accomplice from their hiding place.

He glanced down at the note again, looking for further hints as to the originator. The paper was soft between his fingertips. It wasn't like writing paper but something different, not unfamiliar but different. He'd felt something like this before but he couldn't put a name to it. The bottom of the note was jagged and loose fibres caught on his fingernail. It looked like it'd either been torn away from something or a piece of the bottom had been hastily removed to disguise its origins.

Sam took one last look around before opening the car door. A weird feeling of deja vu swept over him – expectant of seeing someone who should not be there and finding no trace of them at all. With a shake of his head he started the engine and let it idle for a few moments to warm up. The familiar rumble resonated through his body as he continued to hold the note in his hand.

A warning. But from whom and why? Might it be a ruse to steer him away for some reason? But that made no sense either. He'd not been here long enough. No one should know why he was there.

The club was but a few short blocks away. Satisfied that the car had warmed up he put her in reverse and left the motel.

He didn't look back into his mirrors as he merged with the traffic onto the main thoroughfare, otherwise he would've seen a tall dark figure emerge from its hiding place close to where the impala had been parked.


	6. Chapter 6

Hi guys.

I need to thank you all so much for persevering with this story- to those that have reviewed, put me in their favourites list and to the lurkers out there. I cannot thank you enough.

It has taken me sometime to get my act together and I thank you for your patience.

A big thank you goes to my beta, Maya Perez ( yeah, obvious plug here). If not for her pointed sticks prodding me into action, our long dissecting emails of my fic and her supportive hand at my elbow, this story would still be the mindless scratchings of a supernatural fan.

So, read on and let me know what you think...

**Chapter 6 **

Every breath you take, Every move you make, Every bond you break, Every step you take,

I'll be watching you.

Every Breath You Take

-Sting-

Sam. Why did it have to be Sam?

Was the universe laughing at him? Was he the butt of some twisted cosmic joke? He still couldn't believe it. He'd not seen his brother in months - months! And that was supposed to have been the last time. He'd decided he couldn't keep torturing himself by tracking Sam down, by watching him from afar like some predatory pervert. And yet here he was, his brother, at the last place on Earth he'd ever want him to be.

Not once had he ever suspected the hunter he'd been ordered to spy upon would be Sammy.

Dean felt a thin trail of fear claw its way up his spine. Mistress didn't know who he was, did she? If there was even the faintest chance of God being real, please don't let her know...please. Yet the coincidence was...…astronomical…

Had he done the right thing by leaving the blasted impulsive note? Sam hadn't known he was there, had no clue as to who he was. Though as he watched Sam get into the car it looked as if the note wasn't going to stop him from going off to do whatever he'd already set his mind to. Dean was left with no choice but to assume his brother would ignore the warning altogether, or got something from it he never in intended. So what now?

Dean watched the Impala exit the parking lot. The sight of her had brought him such nostalgia. Before everything had changed he'd hoped she would one day be his. He'd not been able to stop himself from running his hands across the shiny black surface when he went to place the note. And from the sound of her, Sammy seemed to be taking some care of her at least.

His gaze never left the black car as it merged into the early evening traffic streaming into the main precinct of town. The unique rumble of the cars' engine faded off into the distance leaving but an echo behind.

The clouds which had slowly swelled over the horizon not long after sunset, released their burden upon the earth. Soft gentle rain coated the asphalt a glossy black, spilling into depressions cast from years of use by motel patrons, creating small mirrors of reflection. Some of them were covered with oil that had leaked from car engines. They now pooled together and shimmered in the glare from the security lights in the near vacant parking lot.

Though the Impala was now long out of sight; Dean still stood motionless in the shadows for a few more seconds. Giving the area a final glance, he moved up onto the landing, stopping before Sam's motel room door. Kneeling, he made quick work of picking the lock and slipped silently inside, never hesitating as he stepped over the salt line at the door.

With alacrity, Dean made a bee-line for the laptop that sat closed on the small table.

Wrenching the cover open with a hasty click, he leaned over the keyboard. The dim light coming from the boot up screen eerily enhanced his pale features. Suddenly, the screen came to life in a blaze of brilliance, the wallpaper revealing an image of two boys and a man sitting on the bonnet of a black car.

Dean stared wide eyed at the screen.

His curiosity to find out how much Sam had discovered was all but quashed, pushed aside as he was surrounded by the ethereal glow of the screen, transfixed by the frozen image gently flickering in front of him.

His gaze roamed over the image, finding it hard to focus on just one part of it, feelings he'd thought long buried yanked to the surface by the pixels. He leaned closer, eyes wide. His fingers touched the screen, caressing each face as if he could feel their warmth, feel their life through the electronic medium.

He looked long and hard at his fathers' face, his eyes making more of what was there now than they had back then. His gaze traveled over every feature, every wrinkle. The harsh lines around his mouth, brought on by the loss of his wife - his beloved Mary - their mother, and the ramifications of the manner of her death which led them into the hunting life in pursuit of what had murdered her. He also saw the gentler, softer creases around his father's eyes as he looked at his sons - the aura of a father's pride and pleasure at having his two children right next to him. Dean absorbed the contours of his father's image - the line of his clothes, the fall of his arms, how his legs rested on the Impala. All of it searing into his brain and committing itself to memory.

He remembered the day the photo was taken as if it were only yesterday.

Another life, as if it were only something he'd dreamed.

It was one of the few times he remembered them being happy together. No lessons, no hunting, no arguments or orders, just two brothers and their dad. Recollections of a time long ago when they were a family.

A family that was no longer his.

Dean's attention slipped to the younger version of himself. At the boy with the eyes of a man looking out. Eyes that even now stared at him, as if demanding to know what had happened, why someone had stolen his childhood and replaced it with a heavy mantle of adult responsibility.

He tried to force his gaze away, canting his head to the side to break contact with the image in front of him. Trying to forestall the maelstrom of emotions already bubbling in his gut and threatening to break him.

Yet despite knowing this, his gaze returned, but this time onto...Sammy.

Reminiscences clouded his thoughts as he grasped the amulet that hung at his chest. The fun times they'd had, pretending to be cowboys and Indians, or playing soldier. Childlike games that would slowly change as they grew older and get twisted to become a part of their father's training regime...to seek, to hunt, to kill.

Other images of a young Sam came to mind as Dean remembered patching his bleeding knees after he fell off his first bike, his whimpers muffled behind a dirty hand, stifling his hurt pride as he hid his pain filled eyes behind a veil of too long brown hair.

Guiding Sammy with a gentle hand on his back as they walked through the iron gates into the vast expanse of yet another schoolyard. Stopping short of the entry as he let Sam take the lead and watched with pride as his brother sauntered off after giving Dean a last backward glance.

_I'll always have your back, Sammy. _

Then he remembered Sam's first vampire hunt and how tragically it ended.

The fight. The fire. Blood filling his mouth as the floor gave way. Falling, falling into darkness...pain, excruciating agony...hearing his name screamed in anguish...

Long buried memories began to surface from that night so long ago. When his world was shattered and torn asunder by a few drops of scattered blood.

Pinned and trapped, with a cold so intense burning inside of him that had nothing to do with the fire burning above. Crying in the darkness…calling out for Dad, for Sam...swallowed screams of pain as his body betrayed him…the change...and then…

Them.

Dean slammed both palms down hard onto the tabletop, rocking the laptop.

_Stop it! _

He willed himself to be calm, to stay in control. His fists clenched and unclenched, nails scratching the chipped Formica tabletop.

He had a job to do. He should get to it.

He turned his mind back to its original task, fingers poised above the keyboard as if waiting for his command.

_What would Sammy think of you now? Huh, Dean?_

_Spying on him, on your family, just to go tattle telling back to your masters. Why not wait instead and show him what you've become? Why not tell him of the ugly things you've done? _

No. No way would he let Sammy know the truth, let him see who he'd become, what he was.

_But you nearly did once. Didn't you? _

Leaning on the table, one hand braced to the side of the laptop, Dean closed his eyes. God how good it had felt to see him up close again back then. His hand tightened around the horned charm, the bronze biting into his flesh.

He couldn't afford to do this, he couldn't afford to feel. He was supposed to be past all this. To have finally let his brother go after… This was all too much. Sammy being here…Baby, the family photo. He closed his eyes drawing into himself and despite his intentions, he remembered.

He'd been keeping a covert eye on Sam and Dad for some years. Once he'd come to grips with…things, he'd tracked them down, knowing his family's habits and haunts, their scents trapped in his head forever. He'd even followed them on a few hunts, his rebuilt '68 black Dodge Charger up to anything the Impala could do, staying close enough to feel them, smell them, yet far enough he'd not be tempted into doing something stupid if things went bad. He'd even occasionally caught snatches of conversations when the nights were still.

His father hadn't dealt with his death well. And Sammy had started questioning things even more than before as if Dean's demise was solid proof their father was fallible. Dean wasn't sure when it happened or why, but he caught up to his father once after he and Sammy had had a major falling out of some kind. They were too alike not to get on each other's nerves and it'd only been a matter of time before the tinderbox of their relationship blew up in their faces, scalding both with the after-effect. His death had somehow brought them closer together, made them more tolerant of each other, but it only delayed the inevitable. Without him around to temper them, and his absence a constant reminder of things gone wrong, they'd parted to go their separate ways.

That night, he broke into their motel room when his father was out only to find it devoid of anything that was Sam's, no clothes, no books, nothing, as if Sammy too had died. Only his father's wall of clippings was there to greet him, that and his father's other meager belongings, as well as half eaten pizzas and beer bottles strewn around the musty room, further evidence of his father's unhappy state. He knew the blow up must have been truly bad when he found the empty whiskey bottles also littering the floor. Only a few times before had he seen this amount of alcohol consumed so carelessly by his father. Most of those had been on the anniversary of their mother's death, the rest when the hunt for the thing which killed her continued to stay as cold as her grave. There was just as much here as then, if not more, and Dean knew whatever had transpired, whatever had driven Sam away had broken two hearts that night.

The only clue he'd had as to where his brother might have gone were several torn college applications half burned in the hotel's room's trashcan.

Then it had only a question of how far away Sam would go to escape Dad and the hunting life he'd never really wanted. He'd always had the smarts, delving into his studies and obtaining the best marks as if it were second nature to him. A God given talent. It hadn't really taken Dean long to find out which university had accepted his brother. Disguising his voice as a concerned parent, he'd called the most prominent universities and had hit paydirt with Stanford.

He kept himself at a safe distance as he watched Sam go about his activities. Hiding in the darkened shadows from roof overhangs, or darting quickly inside doorways. His long sleeved clothing and a cap pulled down over his face over sunglasses and loads of suntan lotion helped to cover his skin from the burning effects of the sun. He watched Sam interact with fellow students, sometimes teachers and then with one person in particular.

He'd dogged his brother like a shadow, but always past the edge of human senses yet well within vampiric ones. Sam had been trained like him in the hunting arts, and there was too much to lose to dare underestimate him. He watched Sam try to fit in, sometimes making it, sometimes not, then suddenly getting better at it after he met Jessica.

Though his change may have seemed gradual to others, to Dean he was as different as night and day. It was mostly the little things Dean noticed. Sam had begun to comb his hair differently and his clothes were more upmarket, not looking as if they'd been bought from Walmart or a welfare second hand store. This girl had a positive influence on him and Dean couldn't be more proud. He couldn't get enough of seeing his brother so happy and content so he stayed for a few more days than he'd planned. He wanted to squeeze every ounce of every minute of every day by observing them - committing their every move, expression and obvious affection to his memory as this would be the last time he'd be there. Then one night he'd followed them as the two piled a few boxes into a friend's truck and drove a short way away from campus. Dean parked his car far enough back not to be seen but where he could watch them. They carried what he realized were their belongings into a campus apartment, preparing to start a home together.

His spirit had _soared_. So happy for Sammy it made his heart ache, yet wrapped by a sense of loss so deep he didn't know what to make of it.

Already late, he stuck around even longer, though he had other responsibilities, in a sick way living what he could no longer have by watching Sammy have it. Things couldn't stay this way and he would have to stop, maybe never to see Sammy again, but until he absolutely had to, he was going to get his fill and make sure Sam was happy, and safe.

A few months later, while back at the club, Dean had gotten the strangest feeling - that something was changing. And no matter how crazy it seemed, he was sure it had to do with Sam. He'd told Her nothing of this when he abruptly left town. He wouldn't have been able to explain it, even if he'd cared to even try.

He'd driven to Stanford, breaking nearly every speed limit on the way, stopping only in the dead of night to refuel his car and himself.

The moment he hit town he knew he was right, sensing there were forces at work around him, forces that were somehow focusing on his brother.

But to all external appearances it seemed his fears and concerns were unwarranted. That his brother was safe and in the arms of a girl he clearly loved. And yet there he was still watching them on an overcast morning, as they walked happily a stone's throw away from his watchful presence.

He settled himself into the dark recesses of his car and cold watched them. His eyes following their every move, his mind hungrily absorbing everything he saw and heard.

No way was he leaving until he was sure that Sam was safe.

No way.


End file.
